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MARGUERITE 



OR 



THE QUAKER MINISTER'S DAUGHTER 



BY 

MARY HUESTIS FAWCETT 

Author of Book of Poems, Etc. 




CHICAGO 

PUBLISHED BY THE AUTHOR 

1906 



ILIBRARY of CONGRESS 
Two Copies Recdved 

APH 9 1906 

Copyright Entry 
CL^GL' XXc NO. I 
^ ^ COPY B. 



7'^ 3 r/' 



CoPYRiGaT 1906 

BY 

MAKY HUESTIS FAWCETT 



. To my beloved daughter, Mary Etta Scott, who has been 
a great comfort to me, and who is making my home happier 
and brighter this winter, I fondly dedicate this little volume. 

Mary Huestis Fawcett. 
Mount Vernon, Iowa. 



I tell you this story, as it was told me, 
Though I tell it in rhymes 
With their musical chimes 
Sounding on to the land of "To Be." 
Though its shadows are screening its mystical strife. 
Till its sunshine and cloudland with beauty are rife. 
It is real to me — it is real to life — 
That crowns with its treasures, 
Brings blessings and pleasures, 
In bountiful measures 
To you and to me. 



PROEM. 

I have been a lonely wanderer, 

I have traveled mile by mile, 
I have sat by many a hearthstone, 

And have often listened, while 
Stories strange have been narrated 

By truth's lips, both young and old. 
But the ones that touched me deepest 

Never can in books be told ; 
Yet there are some tender memories. 

Brightening all my restful dreams, 
That are mirrored on life's heaven 

By the magic of time's streams. 
As they ripple through the mysteries 

Of the land of far away, 
Bearing homeward murmuring echoes 

That were silenced all the day ; 
But the hush of darkness brings them 

To our home, one winter night ; 
In the background danced our shadows 

By the wood fire's flickering light, 
While we talked of noted authors, 
7 



MARGUERITE 

Of their latest works and books, 
When a fair and lovely maiden — 

I will not forget her looks — 
Very sweetly asked the question — 

Her dark eyes with light aglow — 
"Why not write another story? 

Some will criticise, I know, 
Yet the effort will be worthy. 

And receive its meed of praise; 
Never yet has lived an author 

Whom all loved his works and ways. 
Choose from life a noble hero, 

And a guileless heroine; 
Write it all in rhymes and verses. 

Some sweet thought in every line ; 
Then it can but prove a blessing. 

And will surely good impart — 
Will awake a slumbering virtue 

In some weary, fainting heart; 
Play upon its quivering life-chords 

With a skillful, pitying hand 
Till its beauty reaches heaven. 

By hope's zephyrs softly fanned; 
Lifting, thus, its aspirations 

To a higher, nobler life. 
Far above earth's luring vices, 

Far above its sordid strife." 



MARGUERITE 

Then there came to me pure cravings, 

In the fullness of my soul, 
While I lived in worlds ethereal 

Far beyond time's vast control. 
Vainly longing I might picture 

All my inward eye had seen 
In the mystic land of visions, 

With its winning, charming queen, 
Where bright fancies soar unbounded 

Through the realms of ideal thought, 
Telling to the mind grand stories, 

All with pleasing rapture fraught ; 
Blending wild and tender pathos. 

The fantastic and sublimie. 
Shaping in a mold immortal 

What belongs to heaven's clime. 
All her words are ringing clearly 

In my mind again tonight, 
For I slighted inspirations 

That had come with speechless might. 
Once there came to me sweet visions, 

That were graven bright and clear, 
As I pondered, idly pondered. 

By this selfsame window here. 
I was standing in deep silence — 

As I stand here now — alone — 
Listening to the wind's loud wailing — 



lO MARGUERITE 

To its plaintive, murmuring tone ; 
Pressing, in my feverish fancy, 

My hot cheek against the pane — 
Peering out in wistful silence 

Far across the drear, white plain — 
Thinking of the great world lying 

Far beyond my longing sight; 
Dreaming of the scenes enacted 

On the stage of life tonight; 
Toying with the mystic colors 

That across the shadows play 
Till they seem almost as real 

As' the actual beams of day; 
And there is a dreamy grandeur, 

That within my soul is born — 
Sweeter than the breath of evening, 

Brighter than the rosy morn — 
That seems filling all my being 

With a sense of lingering love . 
For the living world around me 

And the living God above. 
While a soft and gentle breathing 

Thrills my spirit once again; 
In the spell of its emotions 

I take up my silent pen, 
Vainly sketching lifelike pictures 

Of each hearthstone in my dream, 



MARGUERITE II 

As I see the distant homelights 

Through the gloomy darkness gleam; 
For they tell not whether pleasures 

Crown the household where they shine. 
Or if sadness mocks their brightness 

Round the love-linked sacred shrine, 
But are whispering of pure home joys, 

As their luster softly glows, 
Telling to my heart sweet stories 

Of a tranquil, blest repose. 
While they seem to light the pathway, 

Down through memory's haunts again, 
As I wander there in silence 

Listening to her sweet refrain. 
But, erewhile, I pause with wonder 

By an idol, broken, old; 
But I do not pause to worship 

In its temple, dark and cold, 
For it lies there covered over — 

Not with flowers and golden sheaves — 
But with buds all dark and blasted. 

And a mass of withered leaves. 
I had hidden there the talent 

That I felt was truly mine ; 
I had buried it in silence 

Underneath this blackened shrine. 
I had heard a voice that whispered: 



12 MARGUfiRiTfi 

"Occupy until I come;" 
Now below the earth and rubbish 

It was lying chilled and dumb. 
Years, with all their loves and sorrows, 

And their richest wealth of thought, 
Resting in the gloom and chaos, 

With the gifts that time had brought. 
Now, again, I hear the language : 

''Let thy light in darkness shine — 
Take the blessings God has given — 

Use the talent that is thine." 
So the maiden finds the hero. 

And the real heroine, 
Sketched with living fact and fancy. 

Some clear truth in every line. 



MARGUERITE, OR THE QUAKER MINISTER'S 
DAUGHTER. 

THE MEETING. 
I. 

Along the aisle we pass where lowly feet have often trod, 
And sit where aged heads are bowed in reverent awe to 

God; 
Where fair young brows seem crowned with peace, in silent 

worship there. 
Where inspiration bears aloft our thoughts in holv prayer. 
The minister arises soon and as his clear, full voice 
Upon the solemn stillness breaks, souls inwardly rejoice. 
Yet in his words a warning comes : ''Be ye prepared for 

death ; 
So live each hour, each day on earth, that when this mortal 

breath 
Shall be dissolved from these frail forms of animated clay, 
The soul may dwell in endless bliss. Oh ! therefore 'watch 

and pray.' 
For death may an unwary thief, or in the night-time come, 

13 



14 MARGUERITE 

May stay the heart, may dim the eye, and bid the hps be 

dumb. 
Let each one love his God — his neighbor as himself — and be 
Prepared to enter a blessed mansion in eternity." 
He dwells on the uncertainty of time — the tender love 
Of God for all mankind. Tells how He watches from above 
His trusting children here. And when the minister sits 

down 
The light of heaven itself his dear face seems with grace 

to crown. 
His daughter gazes on that face with tenderest thoughts. 

She feels 
As if his sermon some strange truth — some mystery — re- 
veals 
Feels that the loving Master speaks through him, from 

His high throne, 
To her — to these — to all His people here — to these alone. 

n. 

In the meeting is one, who has sat all the while 
By the window that looks far across the low stile. 
That leads over the path to the minister's home; 
Yet he longs to be resting beneath the tall trees, 
Where he often has sat, in the soft summer breeze. 
With the minister's daughter. Has heard the low hum 
Of the bees and the song of the birds overhead, 
Smiling faintly he thinks of the words they once said, 



MARGUERITE 15 

It seems dull to be sitting here, close to the place 
That is crowded with memories. A fair, lovely face 
That he sees not, except in fond visions and dreams, 
Is still haunting this spot— where reality seems 
Living on through the future. Like Whittier's friend, 
He will feel a relief when the meeting shall end. 
He is longing to go from ''this close, rude-benched hall," 
Where the "soft lights and glories" of heaven may fall. 
He is listlessly looking from one charming face 
To another, across the long aisles from his place. 
He observes, sitting lonely, a maiden whose eyes 
x^re intent on the minister. 

Happy surprise 
Is the feeling that crosses his mind, but his heart 
Beats the bars that imprison its warmth — while the tide 
Of its life-current rushes its forces inside 
Memories forte for new strength, yet finds naught to impart 
To its powerlessness might, to unloosen love's fetters. 
While the past he still reads in that face in plain letters. 
''She feels all the truth, all the force, of each word. 
One would think it her own inspiration she heard" — 
Was his comment when finished the sermon. In vain 
His occult powers over her mind. He has striven 
To bar the far gate to the stars where it soars 
To grand heights, that he never can reach on these shores; 
For he still cannot breathe in the air she will live in, 
Its mysteries explore, nor its splendor obtain. 



1 6 MARGUERITE 

For her faith is a faith that is filled with God's love, 

While her hopes are all anchored in heaven, above. 

And telepathy never rides hobbies that dwell 

In a spiiitiial land. Only mortal its spell. 

Now — "The ciders will shortly shake hands," he feels sure, 

And the meeting w^ill close. But a voice that seems pure 

As an angel's, he thinks, breaks the silence in prayer, 

Like a blest benediction it falls on the air ; 

A sweet peacefulness comes, with its blessing, from heaven, 

To crown the sweet faith to these trusting ones given. 



III. 



Marguerite Allandale sees a stranger is there ; 
She, at first, noticed him when arising for prayer ; 
She glances across, when she starts from her place. 
Admiration is stamped in the smile on his face, 
That brings swiftly a tinge of rose-hue to her cheek. 
As their eyes meet. She feels not the power to speak, 
For she knows what he sees in that brief, telltale flush, 
And is vexed and confused. Her next thought is to rush 
Down the aisle, but remembers her father will grieve 
Should she go. "It was rude,'' he would say, "thus to leave 
This young man to his fate among strangers." He often 
Has told her to greet the wayfarers and those 
Who have come here to worship — if friends, or if foes. 
She must ask them to go to their home, It will soften 



MARGUERITE 1 7 

Their hearts— give them faith— if she treats all as neigh- 
bors — 
God surely will bless all his trust, all his labors 
Of love, for Christ's sake— and the gospel's. He often 
Reminds her that God still remembers the poor 
And the rich— the saint and the sinner. The door 
Of His mercy is open to all. It will soften 
The hardest of hearts. 

She resolves she will meet 
This strange man, not a stranger to her, but a sweet. 
Sad remembrance of days she has lived in the past, 
When she thought that their sweetness forever would last. 
So she waits at the door. When he comes down the aisle 
She looks up— gives her hand— softly says, with a smile : 
'T am happy to meet thee again. Wilt thou go 
Home with father and me to dine— Doctor De Foe?" 
He is pleased with her kindness and thanks her. In fact. 
He is pleased with her genuine goodness and tact. 
She possesses more beauty— more dignified grace— 
Than adorned her fair girlhood and young, happy face. 
Still he feels he has wronged her, although he knows pride 
Has not kept him away, for it does not abide 
In his heart. Yet a fate strong as time now will hold 
Them apart. He reflects with remorse : "1 am bold 
To accept hospitality thus, at her hand. 
Although often I came, in the past, to this land. 
It is over five years since I went from this place, 



l8 MARGUERITE 

And although I still look upon many a face 

I remember — yet strangers I meet at each turn — 

Ah ! five years in college — with so much to learn — 

In our lives, make great changes — make everything new — ■ 

And the friends that we once met and loved, are but few. 

We are homestick and lonely, when absence is ours. 

Yet such inconstant scenes weave immutable powers 

Round the dear olden times, till we feel a regret 

That their pleasures and gladness we ever forget." 

IV. 

In the minister's home is a pure atmosphere 

That is filling each nook with its blessings and cheer, 

Ever freighted with peace fulness, pure as the breath 

Of the flowers that cover the bosom of death ; 

Or, as sweet as the blossoms embalmed by the dew 

That is showered through ether of heaven's own blue. 

The good minister reigns in the realm of that home 

All serenely, while purity seems its grand dome. 

His dear wife, is the type of the virtues that beam 

From her soul's peaceful windows, where sweet graces 

gleam 
On a shrine of rich jewels — the price of all good — 
The true erriblem of gentle and quiet womanhood. 
Marguerite's crowning loveliness seems to excel 
The clear, classical beauty that bards portray well. 
She is modest, yet ever inspired with the fire 



MARGUERlTli ^9 

Of ambition that grants her the right to aspire 

To a place with the noble, that blesses each maiden, 

Who comes to the altar of goodness— well laden 

With tokens of modesty, gentleness, grace. 

And the sweetness that glows on a pure Christian face. 

V. 

Wlien at dinner, the minister talks of their home, 
Tells how glad they all are, thus to have their friends come 
To partake with them often, the bounty that crowns 
With rich blessings and welcome, their hearth and their 

board. 
'' Tt is more blessed to give than receive,' I have found, 
Then the poor and the liungry have no cause for frowns— 
With true charity gratitude's thanks will abound— 
The pure peace God bestows is my sweetest reward." 
In a pause he says quietly : "Doctor De Foe, 
We have heard of thy prospect, and hope it is so, 
That thou'lt soon have a home, and a nice little wife 
Who will brighten thy hearthstone and comfort thy life." 
Had a storm-cloud burst then— with the crush of its woes- 
Had he been forced to meet, face to face, dreaded foes- 
More confusion, embarrassment, and their whole train 
Of discomforts, need iiot to have crimsoned his face. 
Than had now to his confident look given place ; 
For some interesting topic he ransacks his brain. 
While he only remarks : "Yes, I hope it will be 



20 MARGUERITE 

The blest lot that kind heaven has still kept for me.'" 

Yet, his eyes he lifts not from his own dinner plate. 

He fears Marguerite's eyes will reveal a worse fate. 

Quite determined to drift froni this personal theme 

To new subjects — he talks of inventions, of books — 

The progression in science, in art, and the ways 

They now utilize steam and electrical rays 

For the need of the millions today. Then he looks 

At the minister, saying : "Your sermon this morning 

Conveyed to us all a true emphasized warning; 

I ponder it over as one in a dream ; 

I was following closely the trend of your thought 

Upon death. Was surprised, you so feelingly dwelt 

On the need of a sure preparation for one, 

Whose weak faith could not say that God's will must be 

done, 
Before peace could come down to that heart. If I caught 
The right meaning — some one who was there. It would 

melt, 
With its tenderness, hearts that were hardened in sin, 
I am sure the 'Great Spirit' told the spirit within 
Your own breast what to say. Well, I hope all who heard 
It may profit thereby. / may need every word." 
"Yes, sometimes there are messages that the Lord sends 
By his ministers here, to the ones he would reach 
In his wisdom and love. Would his righteousness teach." 
'T believe it. My parents belonged to the 'Friends.' 



MARGUERITE 21 

They seemed odd and peculiar. My faith was so dim 

That their theories and forms were too simple, I thought ; 

I considered it only a custom and whim, 

That they used the 'plain language' and dressed uniform. 

My past prejudice now is all gone. I am warm 

In my praise of their honesty, gentleness, deeds, 

Know they worship in 'Spirit and Truth'— not by creeds." 

'Tt is God's holy spirit that shows thee these things, 

It will guide thee to fountains, whose living good, springs 

From the depths of his love, that will fill thy whole heart, 

And the peace it bestows the world cannot impart." 

"You must speak from experience. Some day, I hope, 

I can earnestly with you, in this matter, cope. 

I believe your religion beyond tame dispute. 

All your doctrines are truths that the wise can't refute. 

AH the women, I see, have the sweetest of faces. 

Retirement and modesty always their graces ; 

I hear this remarked in different places 

When traveling. 

Happy am I now to own, 
Their intelligence, surely, is often above 
Ordinary. Their chief characteristic pure love 
For all nations and people. The more I am thrown 
Among these humble Christians, the more I am sure 
They are right. They will take up their cross and endure 
Martyrdom for Christ's sake, with a cheerfulness never 
Here met among people who walk with the world, 



22 MARGUERITE 

While Truth's banner, by them, is forever unfurled, 
And its fulness of peace from their faces oft shines. 
Inspiration is felt in the force of these lines." 
"When Inspiration calmly dips her gold-tipped pen 

In wine-hued ink that pulses through the human heart 
She thrills with rapture, and with awe, the souls of men, 

And writes grand truths upon the hving page of art." 
All the while he is talking the minister listens 
Intently. A tear in his eye softly glistens. 
He speaks with the tenderest emotions of feeling 
Regard. ''Inspiration — the gentle revealing 
That God's inward teaching and wisdom impart — 
Only comes, by his spirit, to every man's heart. 
So I think he has spoken to thee — and today — 
From my text. Then, remember to watch and to pray." 
This was all that he said as he rose to depart. 
But a burden still rested, with weight, on his heart. 

VI. 

As the long afternoon wears its bright length away, 
In the common routine of a sweet Sabbath day, 
A true sense of enjoyment has come to them all. 
And, in spite of the minister's thoughtless mistake, 
All has surely gone well. He has promised to call 
On a friend who is ill. He regrets he must make 
This call now, he tells Doctor De Foe. ''But before 
I can go I must see if thy mother is ill ; 



MARGUERITE ^3 

She has gone in her own room to rest — Marguerite — 

Thou wilt entertain Doctor De Foe until 

I return. I will make my stay brief and will meet 

Thee again, Doctor, when I come home." At the door 

He looks back and a hint of the feeling existing 

Between them comes into his mind, thus enlisting 

His pity. The thought Marguerite has done right 

Is enough. From whence cometh her strength and her light 

He knows well. Disappointment was hers in the past, 

Yet her grief is not grief that forever will last, 

For she always is cheerful, though now she is seeming 

As if she were wrapt in a vision of dreaming. 

They seem to have nothing, in common, to say, 

From the subject so often their minds go astray. 

He knows not. Marguerite is still thinking of him. 

That his sermon has made other memories dim. 

Marguerite, looking, up, says : ''Oh, Doctor De Foe, 

I feel solemn today. Father's sermon, I know. 

Has impressed me so strangely. He surely has had 

A presentiment lately. The thought makes me sad. 

Yet I do not know why, when he is so cheerful. 

Although he would never be gloomy, or fearful. 

To know death would come to him this very night. 

For his faith is so perfect and heaven looks bright. 

We both think him perfection — dear mother and I — 

Yes, I mean as near right as mortality is — 

Where it daily is nourished by heaven's own bliss; 



24 MARGUERITE 

Yet I almost weep now, when I think he may die." 
Marguerite, we must banish such thoughts. We must leave 
To the future and Giod our sole fate. Why this eve, 
He was looking so peaceful and happy. He may 
Live for years — even longer than you — who can say ? 
There is little, I think, in traditions and signs; 
They become much exaggerated, passing down lines 
Of our worthy ancestors. 

Perhaps they are true. 
Yet they gain nothing good, when retold the world through." 
''Why, Julian ! I am not upholding false views, 
For a blest heritage with the Christians I choose ; 
Dost thou think I believe in the signs handed down 
From the times of witchcraft — in some dark fabled town — 
And in all the strange magical sorcery of old — 
When the wizards were conjuring with tricks that were bold. 
Wicked spirits to unveil future mysteries before 
Their own eyes — showing all that would happen, and more ? 
Often making heart-w^earisome paths for their feet. 
By revealing far more of the bitter than sweet. 
I am not superstitious, no, not in the least, 
Neither like to Belshazzar — who sat at his feast 
With a thousand great lords of his own mighty realm. 
That he ruled with a powerful force at the helm — 
Have I seen the 'hand writing' made plain on the wall. 
That some evil, misfortune, or death will befall. 
Yet a grave intuition has come to my mind. 



MARGUERITE 25 

But why call it 'telepathy?' For, we may find 

Its miraculous origin comes straight from heaven. 

And to mortals, on earth, in the past has been given. 

Who by faith in God's power, and through him still believe 

In the Word, that we only through him can receive. 

The blessed Word, through the Comforter, comes upon 

earth. 
That our Savior once promised through His death and birth. 
It consoles us and leads us tO' glorious light, 
If we prayerfully walk on by faith — not by sight — 
We will enter the 'Kingdom of God' through His love. 
Knowing well of His peace, that comes down from above. 
It not only will teach us of heavenly things, 
But the rare inspiration of good, from which springs 
All our blessings, our strength, and our will to do right. 
Oftentimes it will grant us a fleeting insight 
To the realm of true mysteries — hidden by sin — 
From the ones who lack faith in the Guide found within 
Our own breasts." "Let me say, Marguerite, I am sure 
Every man is endowed with a conscience as pure 
As are spiritual things. If we listen to this, 
Its own teachings will guide us, we can't go amiss. 
If we daily remember to watch and to pray — 
As your father told me, since your meeting today — 
Then our conscience will always dictate the right way. 
We will never go far from the right path, I know. 
And will feel heavenly freedom wherever we go, 



2(i MARGUERITE 

While our duties we plainly and perfectly see.'' 

''Oh, yes, Julian, our conscience is God-given, free. 

And we thus are free agents to guide and control 

Our own impulses, always, as soul speaks to soul, 

Not as God gives his spirit to all who may ask 

It. I think education will govern the task 

That our conscience oft sets us. Sometimes we will enter 

Those questionable places, where sin is the center 

Of all that we view. At the first, we may shrink 

That our garments should trail on temptation's rough brink ; 

Yet ere long, by degrees, we grow used to these things, 

And the prickings of conscience will lose half their stings. 

It becomes thus depraved by environments, till 

We will trust our blind natures to lead us at will. 

If we are not incited to yield unto vice. 

Standing firm for the right whatsoever the price. 

We will find conscience then a reliable guide. 

Always in its dictations more safely abide." 

He has only half heard the last words she has said. 

Yet his face is a study she hardly divines ; 

She is m.easuring its meaning by parallel lines 

Of lost hopes in her heart that reach out from the dead 

To the living. 

Hopes chilled by the cold hand of fate, 
That has knocked loud and long at the door of each heart, 
That had closed on the dreams it once crushed. Soon, or 
late. 



MARGUERITE 2J 

The last trust would have died. Now the crisis has come. 

The old hopes are reviving — that still dwelt apart 

On love's shrine — where we lay m,emory's ponderous tome ; 

As they look on its pages, each one feels the power 

Of new life, that will fill the new dreams of each hour, 

When once more their sad hearts will be vital again. 

Where hope's buds will still open and bloom, not in vain. 

VII. 

"Oh ! this beautiful day — in this dreamy June weather — 
It binds all our dreams and our soul-thoughts together. 
Marguerite, you remember when last I was here 
It was winter — the very last month of the year. 
We were awed with the grandeur of everything then. 
Though no mortal could sketch it with brush, or with pen ; 
Ice ! Ice ! Everything icebound from treetop to lawn." 
'7"lian, could I forget such a beautiful dawn 
To a new world as I, in the morning, beheld ? 
All the arts in the universe, nature could weld, 
Without heat, without light, with the help of no hand 
Save Omnipotent Power. 

She could cover the land 
With rich patterns of loveliness, stronger than ties 
That bind hearts. Dead and cold as the trust, in them lies, 
Yet more ready to melt into pureness." 'T doubt 
That last thought — though it truly is worthy your brush, 
Marguerite. You could paint the world's turmoil, or hush, 



2S: MARGUERITE 

Paint its sorrows, or joys." ''Julian, I would leave out 

More than half of each one and do sadly the rest. 

The pen-picture I made of that ice scene, my best, 

And it very imperfect." ''Oh, Marguerite, read 

Me the poem. Let me be the judge." "Thou'lt mislead 

Me and make me believe it is good. All the same 

I will read it if only thou'lt give it a name." 

"I suggest this one now. The Imprisoned World. 

Yet its pennons and streamers, clear-fringed, were unfurled 

In God's sunlight that bright New Year's day." "It is 

line, 
Julian. Wait till I write here that new title line. 
I composed one short stanza the eve of that day — 
Crowning day — of a year that brought unforeseen changes ; 
Yet God for us all, in His wisdom, arranges ; 
Gives blessings and sorrows His own better way." 

NEW YEAR'S MORNING. 

"the imprisoned world." 

From off the lakes a cold wind blew, 
The sun behind the clouds withdrew ; 
From out the inky darkness poured 
The rain. The flushed creeks roared; 
Then colder blew the northern blast. 
The raindrops hardened thick and fast. 



MARGUERITE 29 

Till nature wore a silvery sheen 
That covered every hint of green 
The frost had left behind. 

More beautiful than fairies' hands. 

Could hang their film-like mists around ; 

The rain and sleet their crystal bands 
About the powerless trees soon wound, 

While every weed and spray of grass, 

Were locked in hemes of glistening glass. 
Secure from winter's wind. 

The clouds with gloomy darkness frowned 

Upon the scene their work had crowned ; 

The new-clothed world imprisoned lay 

Begirt by zones of darkest day 
Before the night came down. 

Unweary winds unceasing moaned, 

Each burdened treetop sighed and groaned 

Beneath its load ; while everywhere 

Crash after crash rent all the air 
And echoed far around. 

From hill to vale — from vale to hill — 
From forest to the mountain rill — 
Till marvelous awe reigned over all, 
As branch by branch would creak and fall 
From many a storm-worn tree. 



30 MARGUERITE 

Before the morning's cold gray dawn 
The clouds, in silence, had withdrawn, 
And lo! the moon, upon her throne. 
Beheld a thousand moons that shone 
As on a silvery sea. 

NEW YEAR'S EVENING. 

The sun's last rays now lightly fall 

In lingering beauty over all 

Earth's splendor. To the icebound trees, 

That lift their tall tops to the breeze, 

- They tell a wondrous story 
Of sunset in some heaven-born land — 
Of opals rare, of rubies grand — 
That seem like fires kindled there, 
Afar ofif in the upper air, 

Amid rich gems of glory. 

''Marguerite, they are beautiful — taking me back 
To that sunset that lies on life's joy-bestrewn track. 
May the western skies now, with their glorious light, 
Gild a pathway for me, with a future more bright." 

VIII. 

Marguerite sees the grandeur that makes earth look bright, 
On the mountains of bliss, in June's soft balmy light. 



MARGUERITE . 3I 

Rising off the pure mist, from the valley of tears, 
That has mirrored the clouds and the stars of the spheres. 
Oftentimes, when a soul has been saddened by doubt. 
Memory sketches blessed pictures of each sacred scene, 
Printing coyly the words that were said — in between 
The sweet smiles, the dear hand-clasps, and all. While 

throughout, 
In bright letters that never can fade, the soul reads 
All the past with delight. Even though the heart bleeds — 
Though the teardrops will start. For, far sweeter the days 
Stored away in that magical, mystical world. 
Than the ones destiny now with her brushes portrays. 
With their duties and sorrows forever unfurled. 
We would rather live over those bright vanished years — 
Crowded brimful of joys — rather sigh for their bliss — 
Than to dwell in the present and evermore miss 
All their sweetness. Though dimmed, ever dimmed, by 

fate's tears. 
Thrilled with pain, all these memories come to our sight, 
With their coloring untarnished, their hopes fondly bright. 
It is well, we can dream of a spot ever green. 
When so many gray clouds hide the flowers between. 
Then sometime, in the future, when memory's brush 
Paints these days, we may pause at their shrine with a hush, 
While she reverently brings from her casket, the gems 
That are starring her scenes, and her prized diadems. 



^ MAfiGUEiaTE 

IX. 

WeaiT^- days have gcmt by with ibe past daily hxL 
In their rush, and their greed, by fate's <io]d coffin lid ; 
The full weight of tlieir burdens — net crowded with strife — 
But- aweary widi watching has saddened her life. 
Patient peaoefulness keeping time's lines from her brow, 
Pnielv tranquil and cahn as the skies even now. 
Franxd in by rich screens, of the pines, from the sun, 
MaigTierite sits, in thought, oo the couch nature spun 
Long ago — treading backw^ard life's leaves — csie by one — 
Locking far to the sun's Orient gate, and afar 
Through life's haze to d^e gateway of girlhocd's fair dawTi, 
With its dreamy boors reaching to sunset's gold bar. 
Yet the sweetness -with which they were freighted is gcaie. 
Though their breath cools the fever-tints these memories 

make, 
.\iKi the ghost cf a sn^ik lights her face for their sake — 
For the blessings and joys Aey ungrudgingly gave. 
The soft wind gently coaxes the rose-tree to wave 
Its low branches aside, so die sunbeams ma}- burnish 
The gold of her silken bro^aTi hair, while the>- furnish 
The jewels ttet hide in its waves. .\s the breeze 
Tosses cruelly its tangles, they nestle in these. 
Julian -w-alcbes her gladly — thooigh his are the eyes — 
That look on through fntnritv- — ^thoughtful and wise. 
L}-ing low on the grass at her fee. with his face 



MARGUERITE 33 

To the sunset — that finely-cut face. Neither time, 

Nor pain's etchings, have left there a trace, 

Save a thoughtfulness, graver, perhaps, more sublime. 

There are smiles that have birth in a realm of lost bliss, 

Shining still from the soul. Though its windows were 

dimmed 
By grief's mist — they were oft-iimes with peace pleasure- 
rimmed — 
Often glistening with shower-drops heaven made clear — 
To keep brighter the mirrors of love, when we miss 
Its divine inspiration to sweeten our days — 
Miss its holiest gleamings to gold-top the haze — 
And to crown every month of the hope-cheated >ear. 
When we walk with the host, some will laugh, some will 

jeer. 
Though we silently go our lone way without fear. 
Never seeing the souls that are hidden away 
In the bosoms of those whom we walk by each day. 
\Mien their recklessness screens only sorrow and doubt. 
From the ones who see only their lives from without. 
The dark clouds — rain-bow tinted though often they be — 
Shut away the bright dawn of a day we would see. 
It is dimmed by the smoke-films and rubbish of this 
Feverish world, whose strange dreamers play on to a crowd 
That sees only mirages, nor hears in its rushing, the loud. 
Never-ceasing sad voices that sound from the stage. 
Where the actors rehearse every scene of the age. 



34 MARGUERITE 

In the which we have Hved. Still the voices. The curtain 

Has fallen forever. A smile, as uncertain 

As these, is enriching the luster of Doctor De Foe's 

Speaking eyes — that are telling to hers the dim woes 

That have brought to his life weary heartaches she never 

Has guessed— when he speaks of the days gone forever. 

"Marguerite, does this soft, balmy air and this sweet 

Day in June not remind you of one in the past, 

Wiere the fairies seem walking with golden-shod feet. 

And where roses were blooming for you and for me ? 

The deliciously rich-scented breezes set free 

Their fair petals and showered them low at our feet. 

I remember your beautiful braids were as sweet 

With their fragrance as now. What a halo was cast 

Over all — even into our hearts — by the blue, 

Where the sunshine from fleecy clouds shyly peeped through. 

You recall it, Marguerite, for your face tells the story ; 

It transmits, from its beauty, that far away glory." 

''Ah ! yes, Julian De Foe — I reniember it well. 

For it laid on my life an unperishing spell. 

While such fond hopes were born in its trust-scented breath, 

I can silence their memory only in death. 

Yet I must not go back — no — not even in dreams, 

In a pathway where magical happiness beams, 

For to reach it I pass over dangerous ground, 

Where the treasures, once mine, in the dust I will find ; 

Yet immortal the faith, in the sky-towering mound, 



MARGUERITE 35 

That to heaven my soul through the future will bind. 

In that mound is enshrined the dim chaos of years, 

All their hopes reaching out to Eternity's spheres. 

I recapture their gleams from the fountain of peace ; 

I know well, in their fullness, my heartache shall cease, 

Even though I may wander alone — with my God — 

Down a pathway that feet less courageous once trod." 

"Marguerite, how I crave such soul-strength to attain. 

To look upward and onward through bondage and pain ; 

You, a more bitter lot than is mine, cannot know ; 

My lone fate will seem cruel wherever I go. 

All the fault is my own — no one else is to blame — ■ 

For if yours is the victory, mine is the shame ; 

Yet I cannot be happy, can never be; glad. 

With the thought I have wronged you — that you, too, are 

sad. 
Marguerite, you may think all the old love has died, 
That I come with a dearth of its wealth to your side. 
From the beautiful verses that Whittier wrote 
There is one stanza comes to mind I will quote : 

" 'For in our mutual suffrance lies 
The secret of true living; 

Love, scarce is love, that never knows 
The sweetness of forgiving.' 
" T forgive' — those two words would be sweet to my soul 
As the years from creation's vast sources unroll. 
I believe, in each one — with its numberless blessings — 



36 MARGUERITE 

Were traces of Eden. The balmy caressings 
Of zephyrs that swept it, would yet bring its bHss, 
While I realized fully I still lived in this 
World of actual happenings." 

"Julian, why come 
To unfold all the past to my sight? My dear home 
Is now bounded by orchard, by hilltop, and glen, 
Looking out to nO' city with rushing of men. 
Thou hast compassed strange lands — thou hast sailed on 

rough seas — 
Oft thy face has been fanned by the tropical breeze ; 
Thou hast found many maidens whose love is for thee— 
Thy own heart is now fettered — can never be free. 
When for thee some one waits — unseen powers tell me this — 
Wouldst thou leave her to add to thy own selfish bliss? 
To unite severed ties? To rekindle the flame 
That burns low on faith's hearthstone, yet burns on the 

same? 
Though oft cooled by mistrust — though oft watered by 

tears — 
It has never been quenched by the burden of years." 
''Marguerite, your own words reveal all you can see — 
Your own heart, from its fullness, speaks sweetly to me. 
I had craved for some message, or token, to tell 
You remembered the olden times, fondly and well ; 
Now, reposing, in silence, on dreams of the past, 
Are the rose-tints of love — with its bliss overcast," 



MARGUERITE 37 

. X. 

"There is joy that can glamour the scenes of this earth- 
That can come to a man only once from his birth ; 
The pure joy that he feels when he comes to the woman 
He loves — with a love more divine than seems human ; 
When gladly she opens the door of her heart, 
Where he finds, in its temple, the love once a part 
Of his life, locked away in a separate shrine. 
Where the purest and tenderest of memories live — 
When she says : 'All the wrongs of the past I forgive ; 
All your sorrows, your pleasures, your fate, shall be mine.' 
It is then that true happiness makes in his breast 
An immortal abiding place — free from the taint 
That embittered suspense. When each day brought a 

sorrow 
That seemed lifelong — making drearily sad every morrow. 
To feel, after all this cold strife, he may rest, 
Brings a glory earth sketches — yet heaven must paint." 
"Ah ! yes. 'Heaven must paint.' Could she color these 

scenes 
With a purity, Julian, such as she screens? 
With the pencil of truth — which she always must hold — 
Could she paint with her pureness the past, when unrolled? 
Imperfections belong not to heaven. Omniscient 
Her vision. Her wisdom and lore all-sufficient. 
Would she smile upon me to defend what she never 



38 MARGUERITE 

Could sanction, in truth? Could she honestly sever 
The tendrils now binding thy heart to another? 
Ah, no ! Thou canst only to me be a brother. 
Then hie thee away to the one thou hast given 
Thy love, wouldst thou merit the favors of heaven ! 
She is trusting thy honor — she thinks thou art true ; 
Then let heaven embalm the full pledge with her dew. 
Let the love that reigns there renew yours, day by day, 
For that love is omnipotent — God rules in power ; 
He will never forsake you — but bless you each hour." 
''You are right, Marguerite. For more strength I must 

pray— 
You must pray. I will go to the girl whom I sought. 
Yet with bitter remorse will my victory be bought. 
No, I must not say 'sought' — for I came to a home 
That was pure as my own — when I wandered one night — 
I was weary and worried, felt sad and alone, 
I had left you — and all that was dear. 

Then, to roam 
With a heartache, for which time can never atone. 
Keeps a guilt-stricken conscience forever in sight. 
In that home I found all to make earth look more bright — 
Sincere friends, with their hearts steeped in immortal love 
From perpetual fountains of peace from above — 
Yes, a home full of pure hospitality's cheer, 
While each one round the hearthstone to each seemed most 

dear. 



MARGUERITE 39 

They all petted and humored my deep, hidden woe, 
Though its weight was a burden they never could know, 
For its balance afar in your heart had its goal. 
Marguerite, all their kindness I felt, in my soul, 
To be pity, because I was suffering the pain 
That my own thoughtless error enforced. It is plain 
To me now that we take people's sympathy, wrap 
It in doses of trust to cure conscience, mayhap. 
When they never once feel that their innocent arts 
Will alleviate pain born in foolhardy hearts; 
When they have not one clew to our grievance— at best- 
Just our own deep convictions put truth to the test. 
So it was with my heart. I was paying in shame 
The true penalty love will enforce, when her name 
Has been dragged through thick doubt and mistrust. 
And her white plumes of peace have been trailed in fate's 

dust. 
Yet its cloud dipped so low that it misted my eyes 
With the breath of a dream that behind it would rise. 
Crowning all with bright visions of rapturous joy 
That would come, as they once did, when I was a boy ; 
And the scene of our parting I viewed at the last 
As a shadow that time would with bliss overcast." 
'Tt is strange, Julian, time could so glamour the past, 
For it turns all its edges, with care, to the light- 
Points its arrows of pain at our breasts, where still throb 
Love's own quivering chords that with agony sob. 



40 MARGUERITE 

Time will soothe, yet it never can heal, I am sure, 

For it only will ease till we calmly endure. 

When thou went'st from our home on that bright winter 

day 
I regretted the things I could never unsay. 
As thou passed our own threshold I said to my heart : 
*He may never come back — why so coldly thus part ? 
Why not speak a kind word — ask him now to forgive? 
Even though he may never admit he is wrong, 
Do the right, and true happiness then will belong 
To thy own, and, perhaps, to his heart, while you live.' 
But my tears swelled the tide of my grief till it lay 
At the floodgate of turbulent strife in my breast. 
Waiting, eager to leap to my soul's mirrored rest. 
And there, speechless with darkness, to cloud hope's last 

ray." 
"Marguerite, I remember how sad you seemed then. 
Did you think I was worse than were most other men? 
You condemned, then, irreverent habits of mine 
And considered them vices. My words you divine? 
The bare thought that you knew them reproached me. Your 

charge 
I resented. Deep down in my heart, well I know. 
Was repentance. I only affected to show 
How I scorned that my virtues — which seemed to me large — 
Should be questioned by you. So I drifted away. 
Thinking absence, unmerited doubt, would repay. 



MARGUERITE 4I 

Then you know that the one we love truest and best 

Is the one we will try to doubt most. We will test 

Their true love with a seeming mistrust. We exact, 

And expect to receive from them greater esteem. 

To our ways they must meekly submit. Have they lacked 

In our sight, they have erred — must be wrong. Then we 

deem 
That their actions, or words, that deserve not our praise 
Are unjust. They must pay deeper homage — must even 
Bow down to our rights — as they bow down to heaven — 
And an altar of reverent penitence raise 
If we think that they do not appreciate truly 
Our merits and worth. We all know ourselves better 
Than others can know us. We think that unduly 
We censure their ways. Their pet hobbies we fetter. 
Unjustly, in cells of our own knowing brains, 
Giving to our own wisdom the merciless reins ; 
Yet, we, really, are not half so bitter and cold 
As we seem. For, in truth, we lose none of the old 
Trusting love. Our full hearts yearn for freedom to live 
As we once did and say : T forget and forgive.' " 
"Hadst thou only said this on the night that we parted 
We both had been happier, and I, lighter hearted." 

XL 

'The same spring I left Medical College, Marguerite, 
An old chum — fellow student — desired me to meet 



42 MARGUERITE 

Him in Germany. So, I crossed over the ocean ; 
We felt for each other a brother's devotion. 
We studied abroad, but a deep longing, then, 
Thrilled my being and soul to see you once again. 
I was prompted by love to seek you, and your home, 
For without you it seemed truly bitter to roam. 
Then, I still had a hope that for me, and me only, 
Your own heart was beating with warm steady glow. 
For I daily was thoroughly homesick and lonely." 
''Oh ! that is the way with you men ; you can wander 
Around this vast globe. You can study, and find 
Fleeting scenes and vocations — a change for the mind — 
While a woman must wonder and wait — must still ponder 
The same dreary scenes ever over and over. 
She soon will grow gray with the worries that hover 
Above her to darken, like clouds, all the light." 
"Marguerite, I am sure that I have not done right. 
Yet I never have sinned in your sight — this I know — 
Nor in God's — nor disgraced my own name. I can show 
To the world a pure record. Except, it is sin 
To court favor and love — -to try ever to win 
The affections — unless, in the sight of kind heaven. 
We truly reciprocate all that is given. 
For companions I sought the most noble and good ; 
In the church with true Christians I often have stood. 
Oh ! I would not have wronged you in thought, word, or 
deed, 



MARGUERITE 43 

Yet I come to the part that will make my heart bleed. • 

In a sweet home I found, on another June day, 

A fair, beautiful girl, whom to know was to love 

In a purely unselfish and brotherly way. 

1 thought, then, I would honorably, gallantly prove 

There were others as lovely and good as were you, 

Who were proud to have me at their side. It is true 

I was very unhappy. I found that she loved 

With devotion sincere. Her fidelityproved 

The fond dreams of her heart, while her spirit with bliss 

Overflowed. The sore burden that tortured my breast. 

Grieved my conscience until it could never find rest. 

Had my words not inspired her— I feel sure of this — 

I could bear my woe better. She often mistook 

Me. Would misunderstand. Would interpret my meaning 

With earnestness never intended. Each look 

Was a glory to her. Do not think I am screening 

Myself. Yet to tell her, and blight her fond dreams, 

Was a pitiful task I deferred, day by day, 

Till she thought that my pity was love. Oh, it seems 

All a fanciful vision. My mind was away 

With you, dear, yet she knew not its thoughts nor my pain. 

That she loved with devotion she knew. All in vain. 

My resolves to enshroud all her fancies with gloom. 

Thus to blight all love's dreamings with shades of the tomb. 

She will pray on forever that God will bring home 

The dear one who afar from her shelter did roam — 



44 MARGUERITE 

Who has come now to you to confess all these wrongs — • 

To ask pity from you whose forgiveness belongs 

To the lone, heartsick wanderer — forever unblessed — 

If you send me from you, where alone I find rest." 

Marguerite feels such pity — such love in her heart — 

When he closes this sentence she longs to impart 

All its tenderness, full of lost hopes, blighted dreams — 

Let him see that her life is not all that it seems. 

Yet, she only says : "J^li^^^^ thou hast not the right 

To ask 7ne now to make thy lot happy and bright, 

Should it even bless me." "Marguerite, you must hear 

All my story. My heart — when it felt heaven's fear — 

Saw life's rights and its wrongs. All those vices I loathed 

That I once had upheld — once in virtue's garb clothed — 

And the spirit of charity over them threw. 

I was one, among many professors, I knew. 

Who were seeming, and claimed, to serve God in the sight 

Of the church, of the world, who had thought these things 

right. 
They seemed hidden behind Christianity's laws, 
While religion had feigned to be blind to their cause. 
Marguerite, I can never — no, never — explain 
My contrition of heart — for all words are in vain." 
"Do not think that my life has no pity. It can 
Still forgive, Julian, for its true tenderness ends 
With this vibrating breath that keeps warmth in my heart's 
Pulsing wound, that began where the lone teardrop starts, 



MARGUERITE 45 

From a pain that time never, in truthfulness, mpnds. 
Yet, JuHan, we ought not to speak of the past, 
For we stand far apart— dauntless fate's cruel blast 
Harshly rending asunder our lives— far and wide. 
A deep, yawning abyss must forever divide 
The unknown, separate pathways our feet now must tread ; 
Our fond hopes have been crushed and are seemingly dead; 
They have been long in dying, yet now from my life 
I will cast their cold corpse and this burdensome strife- 
Will be happy, once more, in the thought thou art glad 
In the love of a true Christian wife, whose caress 
A just God will with purified penitence bless. 
Oh ! if heaven shall keep thee I cannot be sad. 
Julian, go !— and be true to the good— to the best 
In thy life. With the valiant stand truth's equal test. 
I will say to my own heart, 'Be brave to the end.' 
This my prayer, 'May God bless thee and keep thee, my 
friend.^ " 

XII. 

Where the slim-fingered leaves of the murmuring pines 

Form a shade for the beautiful flowering vines 

The bedewed morning-glory, with trumpet-shaped cup 

Is now lifting its delicate face shyly up 

To the face of the minister— pondering there— 

On the leaves of a book blown about by the air 

That is wafting the fragrance and sweet-perfumed breath 



II 



46 MARGUERITE 

Of the flowers to a maiden. Almost still as death 

She is watching the face of her father with fear : 

"Can a radiance like this ever bless us and cheer 

Us on earth ? Can a brow that can feel the rude breeze 

Of a sin-tainted world w^ear such glories as these? 

Surely father is going from all these loved scenes 

To a bright home in heaven. That now intervenes 

Numbered hours between this changeful world and the next. 

Still his face is so happy — his mind unperplexed — 

He is just passing over with no doubts or fears ; 

His sure confidence dims, to his vision, our tears ; 

Yet his life is so lovely we almost can see 

His pure soul going out in the unknown *To Be.' " 

xni. 

The far sunbeams grow fainter for daylight is fading 

They reach through the window's dense glory and shading 

Of odorous green. They are silently weaving 

The shadows with lacings of gold, and are leaving 

Their daintily-wrought patterns of tapestried skill, 

Over carpet and wall as they waver at will. 

By invisible powers they w^eave their own story, 

In silence rewrite it with time's fleeting glory. 

They paint china and glass with an exquisite grace, 

Coyly coaxing bright nettings of delicate lace 

To adorn the white cloth on the table. The face 

Of the minister, even, is wearing their gold 



MARGUERITE • 47 

With a dignity quiet and serene, as of old, 
As he sits with his daughter beside him at tea. 
When he speaks of his blessings, so ample and free, 
His fine face wears a gratitude, Marguerite feels, 
To be filled with the tenderness which he reveals. 
''Oh, my father will leave us I, intuitively, know ; 
I already am feeling a sense of this woe. 
My dear mother is feeble— is passing away— 
We have known this a year— not a month or a day— 
So I must not unburden these strange thoughts to her ; 
Yet these feelings my whole being momently stir. 
For I have, for my father, a daughter's fond pride. 
Beside others, I find his pure good magnified. 
I think, too, he is pondering some powerful theme- 
He is daily absorbed in the mist of a dream — 
Through which gleams the pure beauty of heavenly things 
From the Infinite Love, from which every love springs, 
If his face is prophetic of thoughts." She is thinking 
Of him— of her mother — while memory is linking 
The past with the present— while fancy is scanning 
The future with hopes that bring joy in their planning. 
.As if both are inspired by some strange magnetism ; 
As if soul faces soul, crystal clear, in a prism. 
The brown eyes meet the eyes of dark gray, and the soul 
Reads the soul, in a mystical sense, as unroll 
Hidden Visions. If kinship of souls is existing 
In beings terrestrial — ^where mind speaks to mind — ■ 



48 MARGUERITE 

In father and daughter this power is assisting 

Each soul to portray what each soul has divined. 

"Marguerite, hast thou noticed how feeble, of late, 

Thy dear mother is growing ? I glance at her plate — 

There it is empty. Vacant her chair. Could she only 

Sit with us how bright it would seem. Yet how lonely 

Without her. How sweet this communion of hearts 

We enjoy — just we two. If dear mother departs 

To her rest soon — before I am summoned to go — 

I will have no one left here but thee, my dear child. 

Thou hast been a kind, dutiful daughter, I know, 

Always good to us both — -always gentle and mild 

With thy mother through all. Thou wilt never forsake 

Her, my darling, if I should be called over there. 

And she still should remain here with thee. My heart's 

prayer — 
What God sends to submissively, reverently take. 
Though I gladly will care for you both. Yet we still 
Will all bow to his mandate — our duties fulfill. 
I will go to her room and remain there an hour. 
Dear, should Ernest call, say I will wait till this shower 
Is over, before I can go down to meet 
Our old friends. Marguerite, keep a watch down the 

street." 

XIV. 
The rain ceases, the sun shines, the birds sing; all is bright. 
Marguerite shortly sees several men come in sight. 



MARGUERITE 49 

At her mother's own door she raps lightly and hears 

A low voice saying: ''Come, Marguerite." Though she 

fears 
To disturb them she enters the room. That blest sight ! 
Oh, how sweet to behold them in this lovely light! 
There they sit — just those two — both so dear to her life — 
The dear husband and father — the dear mother and wife. 
She will never forget, to the end of her days, 
That sweet picture of peacefulness — purer than snow ; 
But she kisses each brow and says : ''Father must go ; 
Our friends wait at the door.'' With a smile he delays. 
Could the clock but have stopped at that last happy hour ; 
Could the sun, to stand still, have been given the power. 
Then could Marguerite gaze on that picture sublime, 
Without numbering the moments, or thinking of time. 
Only a memory, now, must portray that pure scene; 
It is mirrored in heaven, but not on earth's sheen ; 
Yet she w^atches her father with joy, filled with gloom. 
As he quietly goes, with slow step, from the room — 
Hesitates at the door, saying "Marguerite, dear, 
I have something to tell thee that soon thou must hear." 
If he only would speak — only talk to her then — 
Sadly sighing she sees him go on with the men. 
She is wringing her hands with an ominous dread 
When she hears, with a shudder, the low, feeble tread 
Of her mother, as, slowly, she comes to her side. 
They are watching her father with feelings of pride 



50 MARGUERITE 

As they look in each other's dim, sorrowful eyes, 

And read there the same thoughts with a sense of surprise. 

XV. 

Marguerite's lovely spirit is filled with that light 

That makes fairer her face, from the dawn till the night, 

But wdiile stitching her needlework silently there 

By the window — the gold of the sun on her hair — 

Her brown eyes look through pearls from the fountain of 

tears, 
Till the thread on her cloth too uneven appears. 
"With the dusk of the room my sad mind surely blends, 
And my father will soon be at home with his friends. 
Everything is now ready — 'tis time they should come — 
I will open the sash — let the sun light the gloom." 
Then outside her low window she trembles to hear : 
''Your poor father is hurt — 'Very badly, I fear. 
He still lives — his breath comes — that is all." Marguerite — 
Though with faltering strength from her heart's palsied 

beat — 
Listens, then, to the story the man has to tell, 
Though grief's throbs in her bosom tumultuously swell. 
'Trom the new railroad bridge that is close by the mill, 
Down where everything else seemed so lonely and still. 
When the train started on I heard cries of despair 
Coming over the hills on the evening air ; 
I knew something was wrong and was hastily speeding 



MARGUERITE 5 1 

To where yonr own father lay mangled and bleeding. 
He stood by the track, and was still very near, 
When the cars passed him by. He then stepped to the rear 
When he thought they were gone, for he was not aware 
That the same train would back, as it were, in a flash. 
His friends there could do nothing but warn him and stare, 
Yet their shouts were too late — all at once came the crash. 
Marguerite, you must come — he is lying there now — 
The chill damps gathering fast on his pale lips and brow ; 
With a prayer, and your name, on his faltering breath. 
He is passing adown the lone valley of death. 
He was asking God's blessing to crown your dear head — 
That you comfort vour mother when he should be dead. 
There was something that seemed to be worrying his mind 
About you. Yet he lay there so calm and resigned. 
Though he feared that your mother would sink with the 

shock." 
Marguerite puts her finger upon her dumb lips, 
Thus to silence the speaker. Then softly she trips 
From the house and thus speaks : "Take this key and un- 
lock 
Yonder door. Go and stay with my mother, but, oh ! 
Do not mention my father. Full well do I know 
This great sorrow will crush her frail form to the dust." 
She asks God for more strength — for in Him will she trust. 
With a prayer In her heart she goes down the long streets 
Till the men, bearing home her dear father, she meets. 



52 MARGUERITE 

They put down the rude stretcher on which he is lying. 

She kneels at his side and says : ''Father is dying." 

His eyes speak, as he opens them, ''Yes." Marguerite 

Lays her cheek against his — it is pale as his own. 

She then chafes his cold hands, while a heart-breaking moan 

Gives grief's language to tears. Well, she knows that he is 

On the brink of the grave. As her white lips meet his 

She says, softly: "Oh, father, dear, soon we may meet 

Over there. Yet I still have a hope thou wilt be 

Better soon? That thou'lt stay here wdth mother and me." 

Yet his answer is only a heavenly smile ; 

She sees plainly his strength is fast waning, the while 

He is trying to talk. He has something to tell 

Her. Oh, if he could speak. She feels sure "all is well." 

Though she knows his fond words she will never more hear, 

Yet unfaltering her efforts to comfort and cheer 

Him. This grief grinds the life from her heart — 

This fierce pain seems as if it were rending apart 

Her own breath from its casket of clay. Then the men 

Help her rise and bear onv/ard their burden again. 

XVI. 

At the minister's home, the men lay him with care 
On his own easy couch. Then a low, whispered prayer 
Breaks the stillness. The wife kneeling there by his side 
With clasped hands — with dim eyes staring stone-like and 
wide — 



MARGUERITE 53 

Asks for Strength. Marguerite—though her own heart is 

breaking — 
Will comfort her mother — not even forsaking 
Her side for a moment— although she is white, 
Almost ready to faint with the sickening sight, 
As the surgeon examines the wound. Marguerite — 
Always guarding her father's true happiness well — 
Quietly watches his face. His sad eyes quickly tell 
To her ow^n — in a mjoment of time — as they meet 
By the sufferer's side, that her father must die ; 
Yet this knowledge, to her, he would gladly belie. 
Full of hope was the look he had tried to assume, 
Yet his pity told all when he entered the room. 

XVII. 

In the m.inister's home — through its beautiful rooms — 
From the blossoms outside steal the sweetest perfumes 
That are waiting in silence, as if with their breath 
Of unwarmed loveliness — as unfeeling as death — 
They could hold him aloof as he stands in the gloom 
Leading out to the darkness that fathoms the tomb. 
For, there, Marguerite's father is lying, all white. 
In the haze of the twilight and stillness of night. 
The low sun's dimming rays cast a lingering glory 
Around — lighting still his pale face and his hoary 
Hair — white as the foam that hides by the rock 
When the sea is lashed wdldly by billows that shock 



54 MARGUERITE 

All the life in its depths. So, in Marguerite's breast 

Heave emotions of pain so intense in their beating, 

It seems her frail life is before them retreating ; 

That nevermore here will she find soothing rest. 

As she watches the surgeon, who dresses the wound 

Of her father, from which slowly flows to the ground 

His warm life blood, she feels it will drag from her breast 

All its feeble pulsations. 

Almost for the rest 
Of the grave she is longing. Ah ! no ; she will yet 
In brave silence be strong. Could she only forget 
What the past brought of joy. This her prayer : "Forgive 
Me, dear Lord, for my heart is so crushed. Let me live 
For the sake of my mother, to do Thy blessed will; 
But, oh ! say to this tumult of grief, 'Peace — be still.' " 
As her father, once more, lifts his eyes to her own 
She sees quickly the light and true peace that alone 
Are prophetic of death. This her sweetest reward : 
A fond smile, trustful look, that commit to the Lord, 
And to Marguerite's care, her dear mother. At last 
All is over forever. Behind them the past — 
The dear past — with its pleasures and cares, 
Yet they think not of this ; just the present is theirs. 

XVIII. 

Marguerite must rely on her own futile power 
For the aid she is craving in this needful hour. 



MARGUERITE 55 

She must soften this grief for her mother. Must lull 
This keen anguish with comforting words that are full 
Of the might that belongs to the strongest and bravest — 
Belongs not to souls bowed in pain — with the gravest 
Of fears for their dearest. She walks sadly, blindly, 
The verge of a sorrow that never can heal, 
Whose fierce thorns pierce her feet with a pain she must feel 
To the end of her days. Should she stumble she knows 
On which side of the brink she will fall, yet she goes 
With calm face to her mother. The surgeon is kindly 
Requesting her aid. Marguerite leads the way 
To her mother's own room, while they tenderly lay 
Her to rest, with a silence as deep as their grief. 
Special orders the doctor then gives — although brief 
His advice to the nurse. "She must sleep or this blow 
Will most surely prove fatal. I feel that you know 
Her condition is critical." Turning to leave 
He is pausing tO' say, "That is all, I believe." 
"Marguerite, come with me from this dark, cheerless room, 
For you surely must rest — must not sit in the gloom — 
In the shadow of pain and of death. 

I well know 
What this means. My own life has had sorrow. Yes, go 
In the parlor. It looks as if joy and sweet peace 
Can alone enter there. If your heartache could cease ! 
Oh ! what joy. Could I take from your life this sad hour — 
Could I soothe all your pain by some magical power — 



56 MARGUERITE 

Only here in this low, easy chair you can lie ; 

Sweetly dream of the beauty of yon western sky, 

While you think, that through all that pure sapphire and 

gold, 
Your dear father has entered the heavenly fold." 
"While the darkness creeps stealthily over the earth — 
While it gives its vague doubtings and fears ghostly birth — 
Must I- sit here alone with the shuddering dread 
That the morning will find me an orphan ? Yes, dead — 
Both my father and mother?" ''Oh, Marguerite, never 
Alone would I have you to stay. I forever 
Will be at your side, when you need me, if only 
I may. How your poor heart must ache, and how lonely 
And dark looks the future. No more will I say, 
For your thoughts are with death and with suffering away, 
But I beg of you come to the window and rest." 
"Oh, I feel that I cannot. I know it is best. 
I will come. May God tenderly comfort me still ; 
He can see I am crushed with this grief — and He will." 

XIX. 

Once again is the minister's home lone and still, 
For he sleeps low and dreamless far over the hill. 
Softened foot-falls sound lightly in parlor and hall. 
While low voices from tremulous lips faintly fall. 
Everything seems to murmur of pain and of death, 
The west wind even ceases its fluttering breath. 



MARGUERITE 57 

But the crisis has come. Marguerite sees her mother 

Still lives. Hears the doctor speak low. "In another 

Brief hour will the danger be past. Keep her quiet. 

Let no one watch here, but the nurse, through the night. 

Let her sleep if she will. Do not rouse her to give 

Even this minute dose. If she rests she will live." 

Marguerite follows Julian out of the room, 

In the hall he turns quietly and says: ''I presume 

You are anxious to know how this illness will end, 

I am confident now, that it all v/ill depend 

On the most watchful nursing — most vigilant care." 

"Oh, how happy this makes me. We nothing will spare — 

Money — time — patience — all — oh, yes, all — shall be hers, — 

I will stay by her side, for I know she prefers 

My own touch, to the hand of a stranger's." 

"I quite well 
Understand how you feel, what you think. I can tell 
How your heart, in its sorrow, must ache. Marguerite, 
I doubt not, that your hand has magnetical power, 
Both to ease and to soothe — yet in this extreme hour 
You must listen to me — I most gravely entreat. 
Let your thoughts on the most pleasant memories dwell. 
For your mind needs release from its worry, as well 
As your busy hands rest. You have watched too long now — 
You are weary and faint — strangely feverish your brow — 
Quietly go to your room, put aside all your fears. 
Dry your tears, gently sleep, sweetly dream what the years 



58 MARGUERITE 

May yet bring you of brightness, of peace, and of pleasure, 
Heaping high, with their blessings, life's bountiful measure. 
Perhaps, in the future, your coffers may turn 
To the color of India's gold gods, you now spurn." 

'Terhaps that I may sweetly sleep. 
And dream that life is lonely — 

The heart will starve if we must reap 
The grains of bright gold only." 

XX. 

With the darkness has vanished the doubts and the fears, 
Gone the plummet of sadness that sounded the years. 
Even now the drear shadows seem broidered with light. 
That were yesterday rimmed with the blackness of night. 
While in Marguerite's heart — in its holiest shrine — 
Is a peace, is a comfort, that seems half divine. 
She is thanking the Lord that He answered her prayers — 
That He granted the boon that she asked. On the stairs 
Some one comes. At the door — a light step — a faint call. 
She unlocks it with haste. ''Nellie, speak — tell me all — 
Is my dear mother worse ? — is she asking for me" ? 
''She is better, my dear, but I came with swift feet. 
For the doctor has come and wants you, Marguerite." 
'T will go to my mother and then I will see 
Him. Why did I not stay there, and watch by her side. 
For I know how she misses me since father died." 



MARGUERITE 59 

XXI. 

By her mother's bedside, Marguerite quietly kneels, 
Gently kissing her pale, peaceful brow. She still feels 
That her mother is near unto death. Feels how lonely 
Her own life will be, and how sad, if she only. 
Is left in that once happy home. "I will banish 
These thoughts. Surely all these drear specters will vanish. 
Will live for her sake — will devote my whole life 
To her care. All these long, weary days, what a strife 
Has my poor heart been conquering. Now it is ended. 
Alone its sure honor I bravely defended. 
These thoughts of its struggles, its chords, must not stir. 
I will compass my feelings with duties for her. 
I will gladly give up all my hopes of a love. 
That seems true and eternal, as if from above. 
Yes, my girlhood's fond dreams, I will bid you farewell." 
As her reverie is finished, her mother's eyes slowly 
Unclose. She smiles faintly to see Marguerite 
Kneeling there by her couch — so peaceful and lowly — 
On her face true devotion and love graven sweet. 
That speak more, to her soul, than words ever could tell. 
Like a blest benediction that smile on her falls. 
While it all the sweet past, with its sweet dreams, recalls. 
Marguerite — as she thankfully raises her eyes 
To the face of the doctor — evinces surprise — 
As she reads in his gaze a lone, lingering regret. 



6o MARGUERITE 

Born of sorrow and doubt — that she cannot forget. 
For he feels in his soul, the resolve she has formed 
Chilling all his life-blood, that his trust has once warmed 
With a sweetness she never can know. Cold and dead 
Are his hopes — the fond hopes — that he cherished so long, 
Till with faith they were welded in harmony. Strong, 
And as dear as life's ties, but their warm breath has fled, 
Without love — his pure love — for that never can die. 
His sad heart must beat on, though this cruel weight should 

lie 
Like a burden of darkness pressed down on each chord. 
Till it cannot respond to his will. "Just a word. 
Marguerite, in regard to your mother, and then 
I must go," he says gently, but sadly. Again, 
All his will power is beggared at thoughts that arise, 
As they stand in the hall, side by side. 

His dark eyes 
Are bent low, as if solving some problem, or thinking- 
How she, all life's best, for her mother must crave ; 
Perhaps, too, her condition is seriously grave. 
This she fears is the case. She fears, too, he is shrinking 
From m.aking all known. Yet she breaks with a low, 
Feeling voice the too long, painful silence. ''Oh, tell 
Me all, Doctor — yes, tell me the worst. I am well, 
I can bear even more than is already mine, 
If I see, through the shadows, hope's light softly shine. 
Guiding me to the goal of a faith filled with strength." 



MARGUERITE 



6l 



In her words is such fervor he rouses at length, 

And thus speaks— while his mind from her own feels life's 

glow — 
Feels its trust. "Marguerite, my desire is to do 
What is best for your mother, and also for you. 
I regret to annoy you with all I must say. 
Do you know, Marguerite, that your mother will never 
Be well — even better — if longer you stay 
In the old home? At once you must quietly sever 
The ties that are binding you here. Oh, what pain 
It has cost me to say this to you. 

All in vain 
Have I studied how next to proceed that I might 
Spare you this. I can see when I come here each night 
That your mother is silently grieving. She thinks 
Of her loss — of the future — of what life must be 
With your father forever away. You can see 
That she sorrows for you — in her pity, oft shrinks 
From enforcing on you such a lone, dreary life. 
Then her suffering — with all of this wearisome strife — 
Is fast sapping her strength. She exerts all her powers 
For your sake — thus to keep you from sorrowful hours. 
I have noticed with pain how the sight of the things 
That have once brought her joy only saddens and stings 
Her whole being with grief. Everything so reminds 
Her of him, who has gone and can never return ; 
I well know for his presence she ofttimes must yearn ; 



62 MARGUERITE 

111 the past she her only sweet pleasures still finds. 

Even you will be better away from these things 

That oft bring- to your memory unbearable stings ; 

For although the dear past is so full of bright scenes, 

There is always a shadow that recklessly screens 

From the future the joys it may bring, as the years 

Pass us by — garnering hopes from the present — with fears ; 

For we taste of life's sorrows — they leave a sad taint 

That embitters each joy — be it never so faint. 

So we gather its pleasures with questioning hands. 

Though they come to us here, or in far alien lands ; 

Yet the spot where abides the deep grief of our hearts 

Is the spot where our sorrow inevitably starts. 

And the brighter our fireside the greater the pain, 

When we linger beside it, remembering how vain 

Are our efforts to lure from the past e'er again 

What it brought us of yore." Marguerite while he speaks 

Closely watches his face. A pure light, mixed with pain. 

In her eyes softly beams. From her lips — from her 

cheeks — 
All the color has gone, for she knows why this deep 
Feeling sense of emotion. She longs there to weep — ■ 
Just to lay, once for all, her pained head on his breast — 
Softly say to her weary heart, ''evermore rest." 
Not for her this sweet rest, for when Julian goes 
All her hopes — life's bright joys — and this blessed repose 
Will have vanished, while loneliness burdens each day, 



MARGUERITE 63 

If the right were hut hers, she with gladness would say, 

*'I am thine — wholly thine — take this sorrow away." 

Now she feels she is sinning to stay by his side 

With such thoughts creeping into her heart. All her pride 

Comes to rescue the virtues love's powers enfold 

To uplift to the light their true colors of gold. 

From the guilt she recoils, that would crimson her life. 

Should she take from his bounty the love of a wife — 

And the rights that belong to another. Such a lot 

Is not hers, should she covet its bliss. She speaks not 

Of all this, though her eyes seem to talk and her face 

Is a study to him while she looks into space. 

With the tenderest regard in his own speaking eyes 

He with calmness awaits her decision. ''Surprise 

Is not mine, yet I feel the great burden^he care, 

The anxiety — of moving m.y mother. To share 

This responsible charge, I see. Doctor De Foe 

Thou art willing. I surely appreciate this. i 

I remember my father seemed always to know 

Mother's needs, but I now his wise counsels must miss. 

She is all that is left me on whom to depend 

In the future to brighten my life. If the end 

Should be death I am powerless and faint. 

' - •■ - . I feel brave 

Enough though, all its battles to fight, if the grave 
Is but robbed of my mother. Thou kindly regard'st 
Her with zealous concern. Thou wilt reap the rewards 



64 MARGUERITE 

That belong to the faithful. Bereavements make hearts 
Seem akin to each other. A kind teardrop starts 
From the eyes that have never seen sorrow, to hear 
The grief-sighs of the weeping, for those who were dear 
And have died — or were lost. All our sympathy shines 
Through the mist in our eyes when we list to the moans 
Of the ones who have laid their best hopes on fond shrines, 
And have seen them all blackened by crime. The dark 

stones 
That are piled on their tombs are not rolled in rich splendor 
Away, when their prayers wakened chords that were tender. 
I often have seen that our sorrow — our trouble- 
Have made thy devotion and kindness seem double. 
We both on thy judgment and skill have relied; 
Others sympathize, fervently, since father died. 
And have been very good. Thou art always the same, 
A true friend that is faithful — not only in name — 
But in purpose. Now tell me thy plans, I am ready." 
He relates them minutely, with voice that is steady. 
'T received just this morning, from good friends of mine, 
A kind letter^ — from Rovia, Florida. I wrote 
Of your mother's ill health and your grief. Please to note 
Every word my friends say. I will read you a line. 
'' T have given the matter in hand my attention, 
I found here a house of moderate dimension. 
With modern improvements. Location — none better. 
Secured it at once. Yet you state in your letter 



MARGUERITE 65 

That Miss Allandale's mother is still very ill. 

That is all. I will leave further details until 

I shall hear.' Now your mother must know all before 

We proceed with our plans and arrangements, so fleet, 

You can go to her room with this news. Marguerite.^' 

"Oh, no, Doctor De Foe, she will listen to thee ; 

Thy decision with her all unquestioned will be. 

Thy professional wisdom — thy medical lore, 

Thy advice, thy own judgment, I know, will be right. 

We will talk this all over together tonight." 

XXII. 

Marguerite waits alone in the gloaming. How cruel 

The foes that she conquered today. For the fuel 

That fed their consuming and life-wasting flame 

Is a love that was quenched — not in truth — but in name. 

She will never once yield to its powxr again, 

For its memory is only the stern source of pain ; 

Yet its breath was so pure that it fanned to the last, 

All the quivering life chords that thrilled sweet and fast 

As their mystical melodies floated afar. 

Till they reached heaven's gate — that seemed standing 

ajar — 
Where they entered to nevermore greet her on earth, 
Where they had in their fullness and purity birth. 
When she hears the light footstep of Doctor De Foe 



66 MARGUERITE 

As he enters tbe parlor she speaks soft and low 
To herself : 

." Thcugh my heart is crushed and broken. 
What has been can never be ; 
It is best for us to part, dear.. 
Best for thee and best for me." 

'T have waited for thee quite awhile. 
Did my mother agree to the plans we had made ? 
Was she happy as usiial, or was she afraid 
To be moved?" 

"Xo, sr.t :h:-:^h: i: v.- .--::--;: i: :- :: 
Was unusually g!ad — her face pcaceiull;. i^ri^hi. 
She consented with zest and without a demur — 
Seemed to thtok we were planning this change for her 
Good. Yet she thcught most of you — cf securing a rest 
That she said you were needing. Why. she even blessed 
]Me for making arrangements to take you away 
Frcm the scenes tiiat must sadden you. day after day." 
"She has unbiased confidence — ^absolute faith — 
In thy judgment and skill — in whatever thou saith." 
""^larguerite, why is this, when you think I am weak — 
So unworthy your thought?" ** Julian, do not thus speak. 
In portraying ray meter's sweet confident trust 
Have I been, in the least, to thy friendship unjust? 
I have frankly admitted thy kindness and care.. 
Have remaiiced how we treasure this feeling, so rare. 



MARGUERITE 67 

That among all our friends not another is here 

We appreciate more, or more truly revere.'' 

''Yes, I know, ^Marguerite, that you heap too much praise 

On my merits and worth. A fond tribute you raise 

To mv goodness, in order to freely express 

All your gratitude, steeped in the warmest respect. 

I seek not for your honor, save that which is due 

To esteem and the thoughts that ennoble and bless 

Al! mankind. But the shrine I would have you erect 

\\'ould be in your own heart, where a love that is true 

And as constant as time I could place on its altar, 

Knowing well that your own trust and love would not falter. 

Yes, love all untrammeled, that closer would bind 

Us each hour — heart to heart, soul to soul, mind to mind ; 

Then a home, with a hearthstone so bright would be ours, 

It would seem as if heaven had strewn it with flowers — 

Had crowned from that world life's true actors in this, 

AMth rich blessings that shower through the portals of bliss. 

Marguerite, you are sad now. I know that you feel 

You must always be true to the duty 3'ou owe 

Your dear mother. You, in your devotion, reveal 

The most noble of traits. I admire and adore 

Your grand, beautiful nature. But this, you must know. 

Only makes me to love you and long for you more." 

Marguerite had allowed him to talk, on and on, 

As she saw a new world in its loveliness dawn, 

Then fade slowly from view with a sense of regret. 



68 MARGUERITE 

Would she ever have power all its scenes to forget? 
\Miile he talked what vague doubtings had filled her with 

woe — 
With the sweetest of longings he never must know — 
With a strange weight of aw^e — and a mystical sense 
That she ought not to hear. Filled with cravings intense 
To unfold to his gaze all the deep secret love 
That she feels, through the future, would limitless prove. 
Oh, how sweet to a woman the love of a strong, 
Noble man. Ever sweet as the purest dream song 
Of yon heaven, when guardian angels awake 
All the melody thronging the ether above, 
Softly thrilling each heart-chord with longings of love, 
Till it seems, that to still them, they surely will break. 
Marguerite sits in reverent silence beside 
The one man for whom always her love will abide. 
She can feel the pulsations that stir in his heart. 
The deep source of his love with fond throbbings that start 
Into being the one living joy that makes life 
Pure and sweet — lulls to rest its unbearable strife. 
She is wondering why God gave her soul such a love 
If he never can crown it with peace from above. 

XXIIL 
''Ji-ilian, I had intended — resolved — that I never 
Would listen to that which will haunt me forever. 
Although now have I sat here for almost an hour, 
Feeling strangely bewildered, with no sense of power 



MARGUERITE 69 

To check the melodious trill of thy words, 

That seemed fluttering for freedom, like rapturous birds. 

Oh, I never again must this sweet fervor know, 

That has warmed all my life blood's mellifluent flow, 

While I listened to strains from a transported heart, 

That have caused, in my breast, its old life hopes to start. 

Yet have wakened its slumbering echoes in vain, 

For they only can bring to me visions of pain. 

I once promised my father I always would cling 

To my mother, whatever the future might bring. 

I find now that she needs me, I always will stay. 

If the whole world seems empty and clouded each day." 

"Marguerite, your fond loyalty fills me with pride. 

In its faithfulness, too, must your mother confide. 

Owen IMeredith had such as you in his mind 

When he modeled his heroine, christened Lucile, 

For you surely have all of her virtues combined ; 

All her grace— though like her are unyielding as steel." 

"Thou dost flatter me, Julian, for often I feel 

That the noblest of all heroines was Lucile ; 

She was lovely in character — true to her duty 

Her labor of love only crowned the rare beauty 

She freely possessed. Still my own work is only 

For one— yet for one— who is feeble and lonely. 

Who clings to my life with the grasp of the years, 

Who has guarded my childhood and soothed all my fears. 

Who has watched with devotion the maiden's unrest. 



70 MARGUERITE 

Always tenderly sheltered my head on her breast, 

Spending wearison:e hours b> the bedside of pain, 

Oft with gentle words lulling my feverish brain ; 

At the noon of the night often courting sweet sleep, 

By the touch of her soft hand upon my hot brow ; 

I know, too, that unslumbering she watched but to weep, 

When I think of those days of anxiety now. 

Thou hast modeled and molded my graces in steel, 

Hast ascribed me the beauty bequeathed to Lucile, 

Though I never deserved it. Mayst thou be as brave — 

Be as valiant a knight — as was Alfred Vargrave. 

Yet he found, all too late, that the love that had first 

Filled his heart with its buds, waiting, eager to burst 

Into soul-thrilling blossoms was only, in truth, 

The one love of his manhood as well as his youth. 

Though he erred, he was noble, he did not forsake 

The fair one he had pledged by his honor to take 

To his breast — to his home — as his own beloved wife, 

Whom he vowed he would cherish as sacred for life. 

As I once said, I say to thee, go to the one 

Who still feels thou hast promised devotion of soul, 

For I now can speak truthfully that there is none 

Other heart that thy bounty of love can control. 

Thou hast plighted thy troth, now be true to thy trust, 

Do not blight a young life that is loyal and just, 

Who adores thy integrity — worships the whole 

Of thy grand, noble nature and pureness of soul." 



MARGUERITE 71 

"Marguerite, you mistake. You forget that I never 

Made vows. Do wot say: 'Thou hast phghted thy troth;' 

Beauty's fairy was near me and I, hke the moth, 

Hovered close to the Hght till my life could not sever 

From hers, unless heartstrings were seared by its powers. 

For the flame only brightened through those summer hours. 

The next time that I come I will tell you my story. 

My hands, with the heart-throbs of life, are not gory." 

''Not yet, Julian, no ; but the light burns the same. 

It will sear the best blood of one heart in its flame. 

Ellenore rests secure in the thought that sincere 

And confiding thou art. She still feels not a fear — 

Feels thy life will forever prove just what it seems; 

Do not let her bright hopes soar away into dreams, 

Nor her fair, buoyant spirit be saddened by doubt. 

For, I know, that so dark and so lonely without 

Thee her young life would be. Do not leave her to grieve, 

Oh, I wish thou couldst see — thou couldst only believe — 

How much joy has gone out of my own heart to-night, 

How much brightness is dimmed to my hungering sight. 

Yet, no murmuring nor sighing for lost joys shall come 

From my lips. To their memory let them be dumb. 

For I never would cloud the bright future of one, 

Who is thinking from dawn, till the set of the sun, 

Of a sweet, happy home just with thee. Like Lucile 

I will watch from afar, and like her will I feel 

A proud sense of thy honor, achievements, success. 



•j^ MARGUERITE 

May our God, in His infinite goodness, still bless 
Thee, will be my lone prayer every night, every day. 
Yes, through sunshine and shadov^r for thee will I pray. 
I have counted the cost of this stern loss to me — 
What my life is without thee and what it will be 
Through the days — I am watching and waiting alone — 
With my mother. May true resignation atone 
For my crosses. May cheerfulness bless every duty, 
Until time shall crown our dear home with rare beauty." 

XXIV. 

Those '']\m^ days" are all passed — Summer gone — ^Autumn 

here — 
We are silently watching the wane of the year. 
All its glories are fading — are chilled by its breath — 
As it sobbing and sighing approaches its death. 
Yet its beauties are tranquilly resting to-day, 
In an air as serene and unclouded as May. 
Marguerite is inspired by its essence and balm, 
That have come to her spirit like odors that calm 
All the senses, and soothingly quiet to rest. 
Even conscience that bears no fierce pang to the breast. 
She is lulled by the scenes of her girl-hood's fair dawn, 
Is reclining at ease, while she writes, on the lawn. 
"Oh, if Julian only would come to this spot. 
He would see, that for once in my life, I forgot 
To remember regret. 



MARGUERITE 



1Z 



I will leave this dear place, 
With the impress of peace plainly stamped on my face, 
Even, though he may nevermore see its repose. 
One brief glance v^ould soon tell him I buried my woes. 
To Elnore he can go with brave heart, I am sure, 
And there is not a sorrow that time cannot cure. 
iVo, I once said to him, that time only can ease. 
For it never can bring us life's fullness of peace. 
When a woe, that will reach to its wearisome end, 
Crawls along its whole length, loosening ties of a friend." 
'''Marguerite, all your thoughts must be silenced so deep, 
Or else all in sweet dream-land have gone fast asleep, 
Till you cannot arouse them. For here have I been, 
Standing close to your side— on the borders of sin— 
For five minutes, or more. Was afraid not to speak- 
More afraid if I spoke, fear would blanche your fair cheek- 
Send a tremor of pain to your heart, as to mine." 
'']vX\^n, no, I am glad thou hast come here once more. 
To behold all this loveliness I still adore. 
Like its Author, its scenes are all truly divine, 
And why say on the borders of sin?" 

''Do you see, 
Marguerite, I feel guilty of wrong, thus to be 
In your presence, of late, when I know you condemn 
All my actions ? I see that you think me untrue 
To the absent, and why ? when my thoughts are with you— 
Even dreaming. It takes all the pride— all the strength— 



74 MARGUERITE 

Of my manhood, to quell the emotions of pain, 

That cry out from love's forte, but are crying in vain, 

For the courage your honor will never contemn." 

"Oh, Julian, be strong. Thou hast gone to the length 

Of propriety. Honor — thy honor — and mine — 

Yes, Elnore's — are all kneeling at love's shattered shrine 

For redemption. The conquest of ages our own 

Victory wins. Yes, the only true recompense left 

For atonement, is binding your love at one lone 

Sacred tryst. My own love is now pinioned with fetters 

Of might to the altar of faith — where in letters 

Hope penned — I keep reading with trust : Though bereft 

Of thy heart's earthly idol — be still — murmur not — 

From love's heaven rich blessings will fall to thy lot.' " 

In the long hush that followed he looked toward the west. 

"This the sunset of life? This the way that is best 

For us both, Marguerite ? 

You forbid me to stay 
I have promised — reluctantly will I obey — 
Will relinquish my hopes with an undefined pain. 
That will haunt me as long as life lasts, but in vain. 
You are pale. Marguerite. I know dark seems the day — 
You will walk on in silence a long clouded way — 
More than all — I can feel that the love in your heart 
Will still cling to my life. With a shudder I start. 
When I think how I left, in the 'dear Long Ago,' 
As you call it. Not long would it seem had our lives 



MARGUERITE 



75 



Been united, and time rolling on while survives 

All the best that it doles to each one. We have missed 

The true sparkles of joy on its stream, that are kissed 

By the bright beams of peace. I have listened and longed 

For a voice in the silence, where fond memories thronged, 

Yes, your voice. Marguerite. Had you been at my side, 

The full bliss would be mine, my own deeds have denied." 

"Julian, truly thou speakest. Dost thou think every thought 

Of the past, at the shrine of blest patience was bought ? 

I have chided thee often. Have pitied my fate. 

That so long, in suspense, I must suffer and w^ait. 

At the first, I was sure it was pride — and its force — 

That had silenced thy voice— had directed thy course— 

I learned slowly to think all the past thou forgot. 

And with strong resolution bowed down to my lot. 

For thou seemed to still nourish the bitterness. Long 

Hast thou staid in a far-away land— all the wrong 

Seemed to cherish that clouded that last weary scene, 

While I felt there was really no barrier between 

Our lone lives." 'Tf I could have foreseen. Marguerite,— 

To what length I had wandered I would have rebelled 

At the thought. I was silent, because I was thinking you 

held 
In your heart some reproach— some rebuke— although fleet 
It might be— yet a feeling that you had been wronged." 
''Ah, then, Julian, I think that it must have been pride. 
At the first, that kept back the kind words thou denied. 



76 MARGUERITE 

After that, thou hadst broken thy self-imposed trust — 
To thyself, and to me, wast unloyal, unjust, 
And although my own words were indifferent, cold, 
It seemed cruel to me that thou camest not again. 
I felt sure this estrangement would foolishly hold 
Us apart. Each would treasure some hardness. 

The pain 
Rent my heart. I was proud, but so sure as I live, 
I knew well I would say to thee: 'Wilt thou forgive;' 
Shouidst thoit come while still free — while my life should 

remain." 
"Quickly now will I say those three words — Marguerite, 
I will even kneel low, once again, at your feet 
Asking pardon. That time has passed by like the joy 
That I worshiped, when I was a fun-loving boy. 
Early love — when our soul's true affinities meet — 
Qings forever. We cannot unwind all its sweet, 
Vital fetters, when truth lowly bows at its shrine. 
With a plea for its trust, that seems almost divine." 
"Julian, still our own needs, on our faith, must rely, 
For I steeled my hurt heart to submission. I try, 
In my calmer hours, never to think of that time. 
Till I gained patient peacefulness truly sublime. 
Now so vividly everything comes back to me, 
I have drifted far out from Oblivion's sea. 
On an ocean whose billows look dangerous and dark. 
While they threaten to strand, with their tumult, my bark 



I 



MARGUERITE 71 

Long before I can reach the green island of Rest, 
With the white flowers of peace crowning sweetly its breast. 
Yet I know I will sail from this treacherous main— 
I will tranquilly, trustfully hope's haven gain- 
Will repose on the shores of a blissful retreat- 
Kneeling low on its blossoms at Jesus' feet." 
''Marguerite, I will always heap bitter remorse 
On my own humble self. Yet, I know I must force 
From my being this weary, unbearable strain. 
My past folly and rashness I view with disdain. 
For I never can think of those days without shame, 
Yet I hold against you, not one atom of blame. ■ 
Wheresoever I go, I am sure, I will feel 
That the loss to my life time alone will reveal." 
'In the one thou wilt take to thy life wilt thou find. 
That thy gain is two- fold, and this knowledge will bind 
All the ties that are weakened, in love's fond control. 
That will gladly restore — heart to- heart — soul to soul." 

XXV. 

''Marguerite, I must ask when you leave?" He could say 

Nothing more. "Julian, this is the very last day. 

This dear home — these loved scenes — all these joys — ^can be 

mine, 
For we leave in the morning exactly at nine. 
For that far away city, on Florida's shore. 
Mother seems stronger now. Is as well as before 



78 MARGUERITE 

i\Iy dear father's sad death." Thus she thought if she spoke 
Of her father, he never would know what awoke 
All the olden time memories that misted her sidit — 

o 

All the sorrow that came to her face. For in spite 

Of resolves, some slight twinges of pain crossed it then. 

Julian would have been different from most other men, 

Had he not observed all. He remarked with a smile : 

"Are you writing a poem for me, afterwhile?" 

*'Oh, yes, writing a book — not entirely for thee — 

But, for all. Do not laugh at me, Julian. I see 

It sounds foolish to speak of these things as if / 

Have an author's ability — even could try 

To write anything popular, solid, or strong. 

The great gift of a poet can never belong 

To an amateur singer, with natural powers." 

''Marguerite, have you thought all the 'nine' would pour 

showers, 
From their bountiful fountain of gifts on your head ; 
Now endowed with rare intellect? Surely royal 
Attainments are yours. To your trust now be loyal." 
"1 will always remember the words thou hast said, 
I will never, oh, Julian, receive from another. 
Such tribute. I take it from thee, as a brother 
Who feels a deep interest in me — in my mother. 
The public may criticise — smile if it will — 
My own friends eulogize — or forever be still — 
This sweet praise will be always the same to my life — ^ 



MARGUERITE 79 

Be as true as fond memory— as living and rife 

With its fervor as now." I have noticed that line 

On your manuscript there, Marguerite. It is fine. 

Will you please read the poem?" "What? A Thrill of the 

Soul? 
I am sure I ought not all those lines to unroll. 
Thy encomiums have given me courage to write; 
All my prose, or my poems, if dark, or if hright, 
Have been born in a pure atmosphere at the altar 
Of prayer, where my faith still looks up to the hills— 
From whence cometli my help— and my strength— as God 

wills, 
So he does not permit me to waver or falter. 
A voice will keep saying : T called thee aside, 
From the world and its progress, to write and be still. 
Thou hast had little sorrow— much joy— this my will — 
Use thy God-given talent — in patience abide.' 
In the future some verses of mine thou mayst read. 
That will shadow these lines with the soul's truest need." 
''Only read me the poem — I ask — Marguerite, 
When you close if I say: Tt is beautiful, sweet, 
You will never believe that I mean it. If quiet, 
I lie here on the grass — all my thoughts running riot — 
You will know that my silence, alone, speaks its sweetness 
To me — that my eyes, tell to yours, its completeness." 



80 MARGUERITE 

A THRILL OF THE SOUL. 

There are no dreams that my soul doth know, 
So sweet as the dreams of the Long Ago ; 
Their melody echoes from haunts of the past, 
Adown its corridors gilded and vast. 
When the winter of sorrow reigneth drear — 
When I sit alone in its bitterness here — 
While its weird, wild winds around me sigh, 
With their piercing and agonizing cry — 
Then oft through the gloom that melody rings, 
Like some far-away music on love's sweet strings. 

In its spell, I dream of the past for hours. 

When I roamed through girl-hood's joy-lit bowers, 

And wove bright hopes in their light-flecked shade, 

Or wooed love's sunbeams — that softly played 

On the wind-swept grass — -on the rippling brook — 

That mirrors the past as I fondly look 

In its crystal depths, or hear in its moan — 

The crooning, magical, undertone. 

That still to my heart forever sings. 

In fitful strains of happier things. 

Oft-times those dreams have lulled me to sleep, 
With their droning melody, lone and deep, 
As down in my soul its harmonious flow, 
Would sink to a murmuring soft and low. 



MARGUERITE 8l 

Then sorrow would grope back to her throne, 
Abashed and charmed with its soothing tone, 
And in the hush — so strange and long — 
That followed, there fell — like an angel song — 
A cadence low from a happier clime, 
That sounded adown the aisle of time. 

To-night, in dreams, love's shadow falls, 
And silently flits on the past's dear walls. 
While around me the storms of worry and care, 
Are fretting my life for an entrance there ; 
Yet I heed them not, for my soul hath gone. 
To dream in the warmth of a cloudless dawn. 
'The faces I loved are all living there," 
And a voiceless prayer — on the breathless air — 
A melody wakes on the chords of love. 
That resounds from earth to heaven, above. 

She finished the poem, neatly folded it then. 

In her port-folio placed all her papers and pen ; 

Said : "Good-bye, Julian, now, mother needs me I know.'* 

''Marguerite, I must see you again ere you go." 

XXVI. 

Julian came mid the glories of days parting gifts. 
All the duskiness, silvered by moonlight, hung over 
The earth. The moon's beams peeping through shaded rifts 



82 ^lARGUERITE 

In the trees, transformed all of tlieir gorgeous-dyed shrouds 

Into somber night-robes, decked with gems. Like a cover 

Oi fleeciest down with carved edges, limned round, 

Or embroidered with golden-hued light, were the clouds. 

Casting vapory mists on the leaf-patterned ground. 

He came on through the park with quick step that was 

sounding 
The rhythmical leaf-rustles. Marguerite heard 
Their low echoes, like signals of lone distress bounding 
On prison walls throbbing with music. They stirred 
All the memories of ages with pain, because soon 
Their own largess would vanish. Like joys of the June 
Days now gone, they would gloom into dreariest night, 
Never come in the gloaming to cheer with their light ; 
For their melody now must ring back through the years. 
To find chords that will vibrate to love's tuneful times, 
Find those echoes whose harmony joyfullv chimes 
Through the vistas of visions, discordant with fears. 
She must live in the future — must tread its lone wav — 
AA'ith a firmness that brings joy to each weary day ; 
Her air-castles — that glistened like pearls of rare beauty — 
Are wrecked on the pathway of vigilant dutv. 

XXVH. 

Julian can:e with pulsations that quickened aweary 

\\ hile walking across the wide lawn. It seemed drearv 

.\iul lonely to him. He had often oone over 



MARGUERITE 83 

The very same ground, when he came as the lover 
He now longed to be. He would bear with the grace 
Of the brave, fearless christian — ^the tests, of his race — 
A race — hardy to principles, honesty, right, 
That he guarded from daily temptations with might. 
In the wide portico — always screened in the summer — 
From sunlight and moonlight— by dense flowering vines- 
Marguerite is awaiting, in silence, the comer. 
Where king-frost has stolen the leaves, the moon shines 
Throughv the spaces with soft, subdued light that grows 

dimmer, 
When lightly the leaves are swayed down by the breeze. 
That is munnuring sweet stories, in sighs, to the trees. 
Where the moon-beams — the light of the lover's tryst — 

shimmer. 
Erect — with the grace to a nobleman born — 
W'ith a manner that wrong and its courtiers would scorn — 
Julian comes. ''Marguerite, why not rest in this shade 
For awhile? I would talk to you here in this lone 
Lovely spot, filled with memories dear to each one," 
He was saying, as Marguerite rose. ''Not afraid 
Of the dampness pervading this climate, protected 
Like this from the October air? We neglected 
Of late all this screening, and why?". "The bare thought 
That we had not the right to sit here as of yore, 
Julian, held in abeyance our actions. Xow before 
We again its seclusion have peacefully bought, 



84 MARGUERITE 

We must promise ourselves, and each other, to bar 
The frail gateway between us, that leads to the far 
Away future. Place true danger signals along 
The vast fortress of love, that will prove to be strong 
In defending its courts from the power of each heart, 
Ever destined to dwell on its own throne apart." 
"Yes, apart, Marguerite, when I need all the force 
Of your strong, noble nature, to balance my course 
On the ocean of life. 

Need an anchor above, 
^^^eighed with prayers and your faith. For a true woman's 

love 
Is a power so mighty, its ballast will hold 
Straight one side of the bark, though the other with gold 
May be freighted." "Ji-^li^"^ well hast thou spoken, but 

see — 
Thy love cargo is ready — is waiting for thee — 
You will loyally sail from the haven in peace. 
Till you strand on the shore where life's struggles all cease. 
Should the years as they pass bring thee honor and fame, 
Should they write on the page of grand heroes thy name, 
Shouldst thou work In the ranks with the christians, who 

toil 
For the love of the gospel on lone foreign soil ; 
With the foremost in power for right and the good 
Of mankind shouldst thou stand, firm and staunch, where 

have stood 



MARGUERITE 85 

This great nation's most earnest, most honored, of men, 
I would watch, I would know, and be proud of thee then." 
''Marguerite, I should think you can certainly see, 
That the things you desire and are craving for me, 
You are plitting beyond the dim verge of my sight. 
You are turning the dawn of success into night. 
That the things you most covet should govern my fate, 
You are pushing aside in the shadaws to wait, 
By the hand that," alone, can yet aid me to win- 
That can lure me afar from temptation and sin— 
And that surely can guide me in pathways that lead 
To a purer religion than dogma, or creed, 
That will harness the soul to a masterful law. 
Still supposing its codes, and its morals, will draw 
It to heaven, although in a strange faith, we trust, 
That is trailing the christian's pure robes in the dust." 
"There is one, whose deep love seems as pure as my own. 
Who is serving the God I will worship, alone, 
Her own powers will guide thee, as true as would mine, 
And the Hand leading all is forever divine. 
You may stand on the mountain of holiest bliss, 
You may share there, together, the honors I miss." 
"If renown's dizzy summit I fail to acquire. 
If ambition's fond dreams cease to bid me aspire. 
If I stand in the battle of life with its foes 
Still unconquered — disheartened and crushed by its woes— 



86 MARGUERITE 

W'nuld you view the spoils, then, with a proud heart and 

say — 
'Behold, these are the trophies I gleaned from the fray' ? 
I think not, Marguerite — through hot tears would you gaze 
On the cold, ruined wreck of the past. Then these days 
Would come back with remorse and deep pain to your 

sight, 
Your sad heart would pay penance as lonely as night." 
"Julian, once in the past, I would think, even dream, 
That thy life, of my own, would Ije truly a part. 
Dream of triimiphs with pride that made stronger my heart, 
That is still beating high to life's victories, that seem 
In a far away world with defeat overcast — 
For a dearer must praise — when thy future is past — 
Is enacted. Though mine w^ould have been the heart-proud 
Of the actor, who toils — with his soul reaching heights 
That are far — far^beyond the research of the crowd. 
\Vith my eyes ever upward to sun-dimming sights — 
That are screened by the future's vast curtains that up 
To the zenith still reach — I would see on a star- 
Growned summit there — sipping from Fame's relished cup. 
With its glory and sweetness near heaven's own bar — 
My ideal — my hero. My reverence, my pride, 
Were aroused, when I thought thou and I, side by side. 
Would go on up the mountain together. The same 
Hopes and faith — trusting ever in God's holy name, 
lulian, never once think, that as earth names her own 



MARGUERITE S/ 

Liviiii^- he toes, would T have been proud. At the throne 
( )f God's grace I would bow low and say : 'Thou hast given 
Ale love, Thou hast nurtured and ripened for heaven, 
We thank Thee, dear Father, we know Thou art just, 
Thou wilt keep all our treasures — where moth — nor where 

rust — 
Can corrupt them. We know from whence ccmcth our 

might — 
We will trust, though our glory is turned into night," 
"Alarguerite, all your words are the veriest truth, 
With Longfellow, I say : 'AH the thoughts of our youth 
Are long, long, thoughts. That a boy's will, is the wind's 
Will.' If only we could have borne this in our minds, 
It had guarded my honor and peace. We would feel 
Lenient now. The best that our lives could reveal 
Had been lived. 'Our friendships old and our early loves 
Would come back with a sabbath sound as of doves,' 
And we still would be singing the same sweet songs. 
Would be living the bliss that to each one belongs. 
Yet m}' own earnest heart was so eager to make 
Others happy. It yearned in its haste — for their sake — 
To say beautiful things — to bring pleasure to care, 
Make them feel all their joy, 'or their pain, I could share." 
"I see Julian, yet while thou fillst to the brim 
The dear hearts where thy presence is felt, joy will dim 
All thy feelings for friends far away. Then regret, 
Cold and stern, will creep in, chiding thee to forget 



88 MARGUERITE 

Those thou lovest, even when thy heart's rapture was high, 
To forget the regard due to them makes thee sigh — 
To the absent, I mean. Thy impulsiveness then, 
Brings remorse. Yet such natures we find among men." 
*'Yes, and women too, Marguerite. Noble and good 
Are their lives. Their pure light blesses others who would 
Ahvays dwell in despair. The sunshine from their souls — 
Fromi their hearts — overflowing with fervor, consoles. 
In your own soul the music, the charm, and the sweetness 
Of life — are its emblems, its boon, of completeness. 
Yes, I still think impulsiveness often has birth 
In the noblest of natures — most genuine hearts — 
They will recognize promptly the most sanguine w-orth. 
Think — the eye from w^hich oftenest the first tear-drop 

starts, 
Is the eye that reads quickest another's deep grief. 
Sends to sad hearts the readiest, happiest, relief. 
It can diagnose fleetest the w'oes of that life. 
And can telegraph pity with tenderness rife, 
Catch electrical signals from live w'itqs above, 
Thrilled with glory immortal — eternal as love^ 
For they come to our lives from the source of all faith, 
From God's infinite peace, lasting even through death. 
There is something within our own breasts that is born 
Of compassion, that feasts on the breath of each word 
That vibrates, wath its gentle touch, every heart-chord 
That is human. Although it may cause us to mourn, 



MARGUERITE 89 

After calmer reflection, it clarcs iis to speak 

Just tlie words that a dear one is longing to hear, 

Bringing love's softened beauty to e^-e and to cheek — 

Bringing happiness life — even death — need not fear." 

"Yet impulsiveness, Julian, has wrought more of sorrow, 

Than years ever cure, even though each tomorrow 

From cycle to cycle could span. Though the heart 

Is so quick to respond and obey what will start 

x\ll its live sensibilities, time will, perhaps, 

Bring its keener requital though ages elapse. 

Cautious natures will suffer, endure, and be still. 

Waiting patiently, often, to know what is best. 

They with watchfulness every day's duties fulfill. 

Then submissively leave unto heaven the rest. 

Though they long to unburden a soul full of love. 

With fond words that would tenderly soothe their tossed 

hearts. 
With caresses that spring from the source where love starts. 
And we know that true love's living fount is above." 

XXVIII. 

''Marguerite, you may chide — may rebuke if you will— 
I must tell my whole story to you, then be still. 
In June's vision-lined w^eather is something to lull 
Our emotions, our senses, with dreaminess — full 
Of pathetic delight, that bewilders our brains, 
Till our fancies seem real when given the reins. 



90 MARGUERITE 

J 11 chimerical worlds we will stray, on and on, 

Soothed by breezes as gentle as whispers of bliss, 

Whose creation began in the earliest dawn^ 

Of a morning that seemed as unclouded as this. 

I was musing in just such an ecstatic state 

Dwelling only on pleasures — my spirits with freight 

From the dream-world were sated, and now I must rue. 

All my days, what I carelessly spoke. It is true 

That those few thoughtless words I can never unsay, 

Uttered then in a questioning, half -jesting way. 

You will see that my thoughts to life's meaning were dead, 

My own words prove this truth — that my senses had fled. 

'Ellenore, I forever will cherish these balmy June hours, 

I have spent here with you in these halcyon bowers. 

I had dreamed of June's roses — June's zephyrs — June's 

sky — 
In a garden of love — with its bliss — by and by.' 
With an earnestness that I can never forget 
She made answer: 'Oh, Julian, thank God that we met — * 
That you found 'mid the odor of heaven's own flowers. 
Love's fulfillment — to sweeten and bless all your dreams. 
With a truthfulness, pure as reaHty seems.' 
I have told you I think, in the past, that sometimes 
She would read to me poems that thrilled me. The rhymes 
Of some poet, who lived in as blissful a state 
As w^as hers. 

Disappointment would come, soon or late. 



MARGUERITE QI 

To one life, or to both. Slie would question the powers. 

That ever brought sorrow to love's fated hours. 

In her voice was a melody filled with repose, 

While in yours is a sweetness to silence my woes — 

To unburden ni}- miiid — to uplift from my brain, 

The drear volume of clouds that are broidered with pain." 

"Yet, Tn God is our trust' — this our motto will be. 

Julian, far, very far, in the future, I see 

The high mountains of peace rising out of the haze. 

That is crowning with beauty the pain and the losses. 

The meed of the christian. It lightens the crosses 

That chequered our lives in these sad, lonely days. 

Let us linger no longer — nor dream of defeat — 

In the valley of shadows, where dangers we meet. 

Though we part without hope, we will cease to regret. 

Will remember the sweet — all the bitter forget — 

And so sure as is heaven, in mansions above 

W^e w^ill meet, our hearts then, will know nothing but love." 

"It is true, Marguerite. Your words play on my heart 

Strings. Their tremulous quiver has left a deep smart. 

I will never — no never — again see such hours, 

As have gladdened my way in the days that are gone, 

They not only have vanished, but with them their powers 

To soothe and to bless me in life's early dawn. 

With their magical balm goes youth's hopes and its vim. 

While afar in the distance faith's light wavers dim. 

I know, too, that I alwavs will feel the unrest 



9^ MARGUERITE 

That comes after the conflict is ended. The quest 

For Hfe's triumphs, I deem, incomplete will be mine, 

If your love and your tribute of praise — half divine — 

I shall fail to receive. For a joy must be shared 

By our heart's own ideal — by her be declared — 

If it brings us its fullness of peace, fraught with pleasure, 

Bestowing on each its commensurate measure. 

I will use all the might that our God has still lent, 

I will win — I will conquer — my life shall be spent 

For the good of mankind. 

I will yet be as true — 
Be as loyal to God and my wife — as if you 
Had been mine. If I should in the future achieve 
Any honor, or blessing, you well may believe 
That the victory — the laurels — belong more to you. 
Than myself. I will go. Marguerite, now adieu." 
They sit there in sad silence. No words can express 
The emotions that reign in each heart. Even love 
Has lost speech its old fondness to prove. 
Oh, how Julian longs once again to caress 
That mute figure beside him. Her look seems to bless 
Every moment. To him, it is bliss thus to linger. 
To her, it is joy born of sighing and sweetness. 
Yet true resignation has garnered completeness 
That wins its own victory. She raises her finger 
To make more emphatic her words. But too great 



MARGUERITE 93 

The temptation. He grasps her hand firmly and presses 
It close to his heart. 

As if governed by fate, 
He then touches his lips to her own and caresses 
Her fondly. The words she would utter are still 
Left unsaid. This sensation the saddest — the sweetest — 
She ever has known. Yet its bliss is the fleetest 
Of all earthly joys. It must nevermore thrill 
Her whole being. As speechless as darkness he goes 
From the room, bearing with him its bliss-ladened woe. 
Ail the light — all the gladness — of days yet to come, 
Will inwrap his ow^n sorrow and bid it be dumb. 
While her life must be lonely — her joys will be few — 
Though each morning, the Lord will her blessings, renew. 
They may nevermore meet, till inside the pearl portal 
They stand, side by side, thrilled with glory immortal. 



BOOK II. 

XXIX. 

The long summers have passed with their sunshine and 

shadow, 
Enwrapping the hilltop, the woodland, and meadow. 
Again summer comes, bringing sorrows and pleasures. 
Once more filling earth with her wealth of rich treasures. 
The breezes blow arid, till even the shade 
Is intense with the breath of old nature, that played 
In the vast everywhere, in the heat of the sun. 
Stealing warmth from the beauty its glory begun. 
It is now, we seek summer resorts by the sea. 
Chronic idlers, and those who court pleasure are there — 
Also people of leisure. The young and the fair — 
With the feeble and aged — to the beach swiftly flee. 
Till Atlantic's alluring coast thickly is thronged. 
With vast numbers who far in the west have belonged. 
Thither, Marguerite Allandale goes with the rest, 
Seeking freedom, from care. She is also in quest 
Of a life-giving tonic that hails from the ocean; 
Her patient unselfishness — tireless devotion — 

94 



MARGUERITE 95 

Her watchfulness — all brimming- over with love — 

^^'hile she moved, ever on, in the same weary groove, 

.\s she cared for her mother, have robbed her of health — 

Robbed her eye of its luster — her cheek of its wealth 

Of rich coloring — the banner that truth, as a token. 

Unfurls to assure us, she still holds the tower 

Where life reigns supreme, although w^ords are unspoken. 

Marguerite feels the pure ocean breezes have power 

To loan her the coveted treasure — besides 

The commingling of strangers and friends by the tides. 

XXX. 

Marguerite stands alone on the wave-beaten sand. 

While the tide has gone back to its home in the ocean, 

The breezes are bearing new life to the land, 

WHiile all nature is hushed to her evening devotion. 

As Marguerite w^atches, with reverent grace. 

The gray shadows of twilight grow longer and longer, 

Sw^eet dreams of the past seem to fill the whole place, 

Quietly lulling her soul with their bliss. She feels stronger 

To l^attle Avith life and its earnest of cares. 

For its beauty seems crowding, wath unspoken prayers, 

Every nook in her heart, every breath of the air ; 

All its cravings, her future, would crown with rich peace 

And rare blessings. All these she most gladly would share 

With the ones she loves dearest and those who need love, 

Tlieir lone lives to still e'ladden and cheer. Far above 



96 MARGUERITE 

The dull roar of the ocean she hears in the gloaming, 
A voice, ''Still and Small," that her jo3^s will increase. 
She knows, too, that in whatever land she is roaming, 
That voice will still guide her aright. Yet she hears 
Not the sound, on the sand, of a footstep that nears 
The lone place where she stands. But she lifts her brown 

eyes. 
Full of tenderest beauty and unfeigned surprise, 
For a man is beside her, she never has met 
On the beach — in the parlor — at table — and yet 
His lone presence disturbs her. ''Beg pardon" — he said, 
"For my own destination to this spot has led, 
I am sure, that on no account, w^ould I intrude 
Upon any fair lady's fond reveries and now 
I will go on my way." She replies with a bow : 
"Pardon granted. Intrusions like this are not rude." 

XXXI. 

Yet before she had spoken he knew Marguerite. 
As he hears in the stillness of twilight that sweet 
Gentle voice, his whole being is thrilling with gladness. 
Yet tempered the w^armth of his ardor with sadness. 
That they meet here this evening is puzzling his brain, 
Yet in time mysteries vanish, we cannot explain. 
And the truth will unfold its rare secrets to him. 
Even while the gold colors of sunset grow dim. 
For the night seems so tardy its offerings wait. 



MARGUERITE 97 

Yet he never will leave till he knows what her fate, 

Can know why she is here— why she stands on the beach 

Thus alone— why her eyes to the past seem to reach 

In their sweet, lovely trust. He remembers, so well, 

The clear light in their depths that would speak to his own. 

What her heart whispered low in the shrine where love's 

tone 
Is so forceful, it braves the old fortress to dwell 
In its dreams, with their Ijeauty, their sorrow, their power. 
That cheered with their sunlight, or bathed in their shower 
From the cloudland of misunderstandings, mistrust, 
Disappointments, and doubt. 

It is strange that they rust 
Not the links, in love's chain, till they crumble to dust. 
Yet they tarnish when visions, that once brought fond bhss. 
Are bedewed, o'er and o'er, with the tear-drops that kiss 
In their falling, the chains golden rings that are binding 
The hearts, that love told all its fancies and truth- 
Told the dreams of its air-castles— builded in youth— 
When their splendor with undisguised fervor was blinding. 
He has wandered afar. He knows not whether grief— 
Whether joy— is her lot. It would bring true relief. 
And would banish embarrassment, would she but speak 
Of herself— of her mother— of friends— or of home. 
If she only the silence would instantly break, 
With the truth of her wanderings— why she has come 
To Atlantic's far Summer Resort. 'T am late 



98 :\IARGUERITE 

Getting" in for our train was delayed. A freight 

Had been wrecked on the track." This he said, time to gain. 

Thinking she, in her own cheerful way, would explain. 

Yet he does not wait long, for she speaks in the tone 

Of the dear olden days, as she offers her hand : 

"Thou art welconie home. Doctor De Foe, to the land 

Of thy birth, to the land we both love." "Marguerite, 

God has brought the lone wanderer back to your feet." 

"May I ask why alone thou art wandering — why 

God has guided thee over the billowy deep. 

To a maiden beneath grief's cold, colorless sky, 

Who for lost friends and home ties forever must sigh? 

Yet, oh, why art thou lonely and why art thou sad? 

Tell me. Doctor De Foe, for T dreamed thou wert glad." 

"Yes, I am. Marguerite, for the one 'missing link' 

In the chain of my happiness binds me right here." 

"Thy own wife and the ones thou must ever hold dear, 

Have the right to thy loyalty, surely." "I think 

You mistake every aim of ni}- life, for I never 

Have bound my own fate with another'.s. The lever 

That holds the whole weight of my love is your heart. 

This same truth I knew w^ell when we drifted apart — 

When I went out to l>attle with life and its \voes — 

Try to conquer alone its herculean foes — 

AMth a l^oyish, ungovernable, ambitious spell. 

I thought then, when your mother you nursed back to health, 

1 would Ijiv at vonr feet m\' ereat wisdom and wealth ; 



^FARGUERITE 99 

Although now I have come with a dearth of the twain, 

I will place on your shrine all the trophies that fell 

To my lot in a strange foreign land, or the gain 

Of tumultuous sails on the rough, rolling main." 

"But Elnore — ^tlie fair girl you once won for your wife — 

Why not tell me of her?" "She came into my life. 

You remember, when we were estranged. Do you know 

I can love only vou, dear, wherever I go? 

Guided on by occult and omnipotent power. 

To love and protect }'0U, I came here this hour. 

All the best in my life I now offer to you, 

I will promise it all with a heart that is true. 

You remember our parting — you could not forget — 

Yet you never will know its stern loss and regret." 

"When thou camest I was dreaming sweet dreams of the 

past, 
I am sure [ will dreani of those scenes to the last. 
Yet thou never couldst blame, if thou only couldst know, 
What was lost to my life in the dear Long Ago. 
Julian, think not, the night that thou left me alone. 
That I went, with dry eyes, to the couch of niy rest. 
Dumb and sleepless I lay there. Almost turned to stone 
Seemed my heart, as it wearily throbbed in my breast." 
"Marguerite, I went out in the darkness that night. 
Resolution indelibly stamped on each page 
Of my life, in clear letters of golden-hued light, 
\^alor-guarded and brightening from youth to old age. 

Lore 



100 ^lARGUERITE 

Yet our will power is feeble and distant is light, 

AMien our bitterness dims our own folly in night." 

"Julian, still on illegible tear-blotted pages, 

Are scenes of the past I will always remember, 

Where death, pain and grief were my heart's bitter wages, 

Some sad as the grave — some w^ith thoughts high as heaven. 

With hopes that were reaching to life's latest even." 

''Your words are still sketching those scenes. Marguerite, 

Some were lovely as June — some as bleak as December — 

The deep-graven scene you refer to was neither. 

Although its life-breath was but perishing ether. 

Composed of three elements, pure and abiding, 

I say with reluctance, I then was confiding 

In none of the trio for pleasures that greet 

Us on earth." ''Yet they only made heaven more sweet, 

Julian — H^ope, Love and F'aith thou must mean, and if God 

Gives us these, we can pass humbly under the rod. 

My own faith was unbounded — my love from above — 

And my hope — yes, all three — were God's infinite love. 

I felt sure that thy own fiance was still blessed 

Without stint — ^without loss— vvith her fears all redressed— 

I must certainly know of your doubts and your parting, 

Is she now quite alone and unhappy— I ask? 

For thou knowst love governs with merciless law." 

''Marg'uerite, you have set me a pitiful task. 

Yet I feel it is right to begin at the starting. 

You know my resolves, but as soon as I gave 



MARGUERITE lOl 

All my plannings unbiased attention, I saw 

That my love was so pinioned it seemed in the grave, 

Yet the tethers which bound it w^ere fragile as straw ; 

For it often would soar, from its confines, to you. 

Till I felt, if I could not give love that w^as true, 

I would sever our hasty engagement. That is — 

I would tell her my doubts had dispelled all my bliss — 

Yet I still to the right and my honor would cling, 

If she truly desired thus to share with another, 

The love, that I only could give as a brother. 

To her. I would bide by my words and the ring 

Should be hers — then — forever. She looked up and said — 

For the while I was speaking she bowed low her head — 

'There is one honest man — yes, one man who is true 

To himself — to his God — and to me.' Yet she knew, 

Marguerite, that I loved you, my dear. Oh, the poor 

Trusting girl. It is sad beyond words to express, 

How she sent me away from her home, from her door, 

When she longed for such love — for such pure tenderness — 

That she said I alone had the power to give. 

And for whom, through the future, she gladly would live. 

Yet she knew it would only bring discord and strife, 

If she came to my home as an unbeloved wife ; 

I have told you all now. Marguerite, as I told 

Her that night." 

"I think, Julian, thy courage to unfold 
This sad story heroic. I knew that whatever 



t02 MARGUERITE 

Thou didst would be right. True integrity nevef 

Is hidden, because it makes purer the soul. 

I will value thy honor far more tli^an the whole 

List of perishing traits, that great heroes now claim, 

Blazoned bright with big head-lines that gild just the name. 

And Elnore was a heroine — modest and pure — 

Willing always to suffer, to trust, and endure, 

For thv sake. That true happiness ever be thine. 

She is watching and praying at love's shattered shrine." 

XXXIL 

''Marguerite, of your mother you have not yet spoken, 

I am dreading to hear, yet am longing to know ; 

Ah ! I see the thought pains you — your home-ties are 

broken — 
Alone you are bearing this life-crushing blow. 
That you came to this place tells the story. For yours 
Is a nature that silently sorrow endures — 
Yet you thankfully take from this mutable life. 
All the joys it can give, with its wearisome strife — 
Take submissively sorrows and woes as they come." 
He then quietly waits, for he knows she will tell. 
When she conquers emotions that in her breast well. 
She looks out to the ocean through gold-tinted gloom, 
And then looks to where Julian sits on the beach. 
Where her thoughts, in her loneliness, verily reach. 
With a sigh she sits down at his feet on the sand — 



MARGUERITE 10$ 

Brushes back the soft waves of her hair with a hand 

That is trembhng. "Oh, Jiihan, I now have no home, 

Xo near kindred on earth. Wheresoever I roam, 

I must feel this stern truth. Yes, I feel it right here. 

Yet our old cherished home — ^the lone room where my dear 

Mother died — are both sacred to me as the altar, 

Where faith binds its offerings of prayer — filled with love — 

Hoping, trusting, and waiting for light from above. 

When these scenes come before me 1 weaken and falter — 

Am blinded with tears. Angels surely must linger 

Right there, for I felt their blessed presence. The finger 

Of faith pointed reverently upward to Heaven. 

Faith's key unlocked heaven's golden portal, 
And lo, my spirit caught a breath of love, 
A dream of beauty from the courts above 

That thrilled my soul with l^liss immortal. 

When I speak about faith, I remember those lines, 

For the}' come to my mind, when its sweet spirit shines. 

Mother's death w^as so peaceful, oh yes, it was beautiful. 

God's living love filled the room until even, 

M\ soul felt its sweet, soothing power. I know 

That her heart-throbs were silenced by heaven-sent bliss. 

Although here, her dear presence, I always must miss, 

I remember her words — for she told me how dutiful. 

Was my devotion and patience. Although 

I deserve not this meed of my w^orth, to forget 



104 



MARGUERITE 



Would be pain. Leaving me was her living regret — 

Her entire, plaintive burden. She said that so lonely 

My life in the future would be. 'If I only 

Could know of one whom we could trust — all is well' — 

She would say. She knew then, God would care for me yet. 

For a still, breathing voice in her soul, seemed to tell 

Her that soon I would find an unselfish, true friend. 

She will feel thou hast come — my forebodings will end. 

Oh, I would not forget, now my joy is complete. 

That her bliss is immortal — her rapture more sweet — 

Neither would I forget all the grief that was mine — 

How I went from that room almost silent as death. 

Choking back my wild heart-sobs to quiet my breath — 

For our sorrow remembered, makes bliss more divine. 

Though I longed, I feared ever to meet thee again. 

For I thought that to meet, would be worse than to part, 

When another claimed all the best warmth of thy heart. 

Would be pain without hope, except hope filled with pain." 

She knew wxll he was listening with interest intense. 

Her deep pathos had thrilled every fiber and sense. 

With strange feelings, that sunlight nor shadow could fetter. 

With pity — that silence could fathom the better — 

He looks in her eyes — sees their lashes are wet ; 

With emotion he raises her hand to his lips. 

It seems lifeless and cold to the pale finger-tips. 

He then says : "These past years have been one long regret, 

I have wandered alone in many a clime, 



MARGUERITE IO5 

With a pain at my heart that seemed cruel as time, 

You can measure its depth by your own — Marguerite — 

But now after the bitter, we cherish the sweet. 

After shadows comes sunshine — and weariness rest — 

After wanderings home — and the ties we love best. 

God has opened the windows of heaven, it seems. 

While He poured out rich blessings to crown all our dreams 

With reality — making love's severed bonds whole — 

Binding all — heart to heart — mind to mind — soul to soul. 

Now forever, and ever, thy God shall be mine — 

Thy own faith is my faith — thy religion divine — 

We will worship together at love's holy shrine. 

There are thoughts that our silence the better expresses, 

Its mystical truths the tongue never confesses ; 

Its language we feel in the depths of our souls. 

Its blest fullness increases the wealth it controls, 

For we find by the ocean a rest that is sweet, 

Our own lives Ne Plus Ultra — my own Marguerite." 

THE END. 



PR 9 !906 



